Skordalia. Skor-dahl-YA. Please say it with me, because it is a word one should know, use, and use often. It is from the Greek skordalia, in case you were wondering.

Made from potatoes, olive oil, garlic, and more garlic, skordalia is a purée that may be served as a dip for bread or, even better, as an accompaniment to fried fish or roasted beets. To me, it pretty much sums up the Greeks' love of soft food, which may or may not have derived from earlier times of poverty, when, as a subject nation to the Ottomans, good dental care was difficult to come by.

That is just a theory, however, and completely my own.

Okay, I Make You Some!

A couple of years ago, while sailing through the Cyclades, seven friends, our game-for-anything Kiwi sea captain, and I dropped anchor in a little port town on the island of Iraklia. After a full, hard day of sailing and gin-and-tonic drinking, we found ourselves extremely hungry, but without many dining options, thanks to our arriving very late in the season. By late September, a lot of Greek islanders tend to pack up their things and head for Athens to ride out the boredom of Winter.

Near the top of a little hill above the harbor, we found a pleasant, brightly lit taverna, half-filled with what was left of the tourist trade and what was left of the locals. Perfect, we thought, and enough room to pull together a table for nine. As we looked over the menu posted in front of the entrance, my friend Gary noticed something in the distance.

He pointed to a bit of curling smoke that was coming from behind the scrubby, parched bushes several yards up the hill. I was intrigued, too. In my hunger-fueled imagination, those curls of smoke reached out to us with long, wispy cartoon fingers and pulled three of us by the nostrils further up the hill.

What we found was another taverna-- dimly lit and much less crowded, unless one counts the two dozen or so cats roaming about, aggressively begging for food. We were greeted both by the smell of a whole lamb roasting-- unmanned-- over an open fire, and the shrill yell of a very tan, very blonde Greek woman. Her ire was cast in the direction of a very tan, very not-blond Greek boy. She pointed to the lamb as she yelled. He withered, made his way over to the rotisserie, and started to slowly turn the crank; sulking and looking at the lamb as though he felt it had fully deserved its death, but angered by the fact that he was the one chosen to carry out the disposal of its remains.

"Oh, God. We have to eat here," was what one of us said. It doesn't matter which of us, because it's what we were all thinking.

Slow-roasted lamb and drama. It had all the delicious possibility of a dinner theatre specializing in Greek tragedy. We headed back to the other taverna to share our discovery. The rest of our crew were already seated and drinking, therefore unmoveable. They saw no reason on earth that they should pull themselves away from their beers and their sunset view, even if the sun might have been setting over the other side of the island. Their loss, I thought, as Gary, Bill, and I walked back to the cat-infested place.

Apart from having to throw the occasional cat off the table, our dinner was marvelous. We dined off of the slow, grudgingly-roasted fruits of Greek child labor served over roasted potatoes with lemon and lamb drippings, grilled local octopus, and platter of little fried fish called athirina, which nearly infested the harbor's waters.

It was the fried fish that caught my attention. Where I work, we do the same thing with smelt-- dredging them in chickpea flour and frying them until crisp. Tossed with fresh lemon juice, salt, and parsley, we place a big pile of them on a blue plate (shaped like a fish, appropriately enough) and serve them with a big dollop of skordalia through which one might drag their little fried heads. When the blonde, big-lunged proprietress brought the fish to our table, they were accompanied solely by two wedges of lemon. leading to a profound sense of disappointment on my end. I had just assumed that they would come with that sharply garlicky dip.

"No skordalia?" I asked. I wanted to sound disappointed-- as though I had traveled 7,000 miles to come to this particular island, to sit among these particular semi-feral cats, to eat of this particular woman's famous garlic dip.

"No, no skordalia," she said. "The people," she gesticulated with a sweep of her bronzed arms as though to suggest the other diners, both real and imagined, "they do not like so much the garlic." I wondered if she was specifically referring to the older German couple we had earlier mistaken for an ancient sea captain and his long-suffering wife. I inwardly cast them as garlic-haters.

"Well, I do. I love skordalia," I said.

"You do?" Her eyes widened, she hunched over a bit in my direction, and with a big smile on her face said, "Okay, I make you some!" She punched an index finger upwards as she said it, which added a nice visual exclamation mark to the end of that particular sentence.

From our table, she dashed off into the kitchen, yelling something again to her child as she went. A couple minutes later, we could hear the whirring of a blender. We occupied ourselves in the meantime by elbowing cats from the table and off our laps. Shortly thereafter, the woman reappeared at our table with a bowl of fresh skordalia. "Kalisas orexi!" she said rather formally, wishing us good eating. And on that note, she turned on her heel and headed back inside with a noticeably lighter step and an audibly more gentle calling out to her child/slave. Or so it seemed to me.

We were left with enough skordalia to drag a whole harbor's worth of fried fish through. I was worried that, if we didn't finish the whole thing, we might offend our hostess. No matter, really. I was delighted, she was delighted and, most of all, I think, those cats were delighted when we coated what was left of that pile of fish in gobs of skordalia and threw bits into the shrubbery for them to fight over when no one was looking. Everybody was happy.

And now, I make you some.

Skordalia with Roasted Beets

Serves 2 to 4 people, 20 to 40 cats.

Since I was too lazy to trawl San Francisco Bay for small, edible fish, I did the next best thing, which was trawl the Tuesday farmer's market for small, edible beets, which are conveniently in season and-- even more conveniently-- traditionally served with skordalia.

For the skordalia:

About 1 pound of Russet potatoes, well scrubbed

1 tablespoon kosher or sea salt, plus a scant handful for the potato water

8 to 10 cloves of garlic, minced

1 cup blanched almonds, whole or slivers

1/2 cup extra-virgin olive oil. Use Greek to keep in theme. Other nations' oils will do just fine, too, but the Greeks, you know, invented olive oil, just like they invented everything.

1/2 cup water (I use the water from the potato boiling pot.)

The juice of one lemon

4 to 5 tablespoons white wine vinegar

Freshly ground pepper, to taste

For the beets:

1 pound of beets, scrubbed clean and the ends trimmed. I have used chioggia and golden beets in this particular case, because they are delightful-- namely for their reluctance to stain my hands red.

About 2 tablespoons of extra-virgin olive oil.

A good pinch of kosher salt

A slightly less-good pinch of cinnamon

Preparation:

1. On a foil-lined baking sheet, toss beets in oil, salt, and cinnamon, making sure they are all well-coated. Place beets on the middle rack of an oven that has been pre-heated to 350 F. Roast until tender, which will depend upon the size of your beets. These took about 35 minutes.

2. While beets are roasting, place potatoes is a large pot of generously salted water and bring to a boil. Cook until tender (when a knife blade slips easily into the center of one).

3. While the beets are roasting and the potatoes boiling, combine garlic and almonds in a food processor, slowly adding 1/2 cup of olive oil as you go. Since one is not making an emulsion, one need not worry about pouring to quickly or too slowly. Just blend until a smooth consistency is achieved. Set aside.

4. Reserving 1/2 cup of the potato water, drain the potatoes. Let cool for a few moments, then rubs them free of their jackets in a clean towel. Roughly chop the potatoes and press them through a potato ricer or mash them manually. Do not, however, try to blend them in your food processor or they will get all gummy. Rice them into a large, clean bowl.

5. Add the garlic/almond mixture to the potatoes while the potatoes are still warm and combine; adding the lemon juice, potato water, salt, and vinegar as you go. Add pepper and more salt, if necessary, to taste.

Congratulations-- you now have your very own skordalia.

7. Remove beets from the oven when tender. Let stand a few minutes to cool slightly, then peel and cut to whatever size you desire them to be. Return the beets to the olive oil/salt/cinnamon-dirtied sheet pan and coat them once again in that particular goop. Add a touch more salt and cinnamon, if desired.

8. To serve, spoon a heaping tablespoon or so of skordalia onto a small plate or other serving dish, using to back of the spoon to then "frost" the plate with a layer of the stuff. Place beets (best if slightly warm, but just swell in a cooler state) over the top. Garnish if you wish, yell at a small child if one is in the vicinity, and serve.

I don't care what you say, this is not hummus. It is called favosalata. If you insist on calling it hummus, I will persist in telling you that you are wrong, however politely.

Where I work, we are very good at pretending the customer is always right, even when he isn't. I hear our guests make ordering blunders on a nightly basis, which isn't surprising, considering the fact that our dinner menu is in Anglicized Greek. It's downright confusing to the uninitiated. And, of course, un-Greek.

As a server, I am more than happy to offer my descriptive and pronunciation skills to daunted diners. Sometimes, people simply ask me to say the word "kolokithokefthedes" because they find it fascinating that anyone could pronounce it at all, other times they might giggle over the "soutzoukakia." And then there are those guests who are left speechless when I tell them the right way to say "fakes" which, if interpreted as English, sounds more like an emphatic affirmation with an unprintable expletive than any other food I've encountered.

But I draw the line with people who order hummus. We don't serve it. We never have served it. Yet people insist that we do. In fact, some people positively rave about our hummus.

On Yelp and on personal food blogs, I have found people talking about our incredible hummus platter. On more than one occasion, I have read people blogging the praises of our favosalata, but mistakenly refer to it as a feta dip. That would be tirosalata. It's the green one, the one with the cheese in it.

Some of the time, I just let it slide. If you want to call our eggplant dip by its Arabic name "baba ganoush," that's fine. We might be speaking different languages, but we're still talking about essentially the same thing. And I see no need to unnecessarily show up a guest with my (necessarily) superior knowledge of ingredients. But when I see one person at a table point to the pink spread and tell another, vegetarian person, "Oh, that's the hummus, it's my favorite dip!," I have no choice but to step in and sort things out because that pink "hummus" is made with cod roe. And it's called taramasalata.

So many salatas to choose from: tirosalata, melitzanosalata, taramasalata, favosalata, and the ever-present tag-along, tzatziki. No wonder we are required to give a little tour of the dip platters whenever we deliver them to our guests. Sometimes, I have to describe them three times to the same two people. I don't mind really, it's simply a part of what I do. And please notice that nowhere in this paragraph (except here) have I mentioned our delectable hummus. Why? BECAUSE WE DO NOT SERVE HUMMUS, that's why.

I can understand the confusion. Both favosalata and hummus are made from legumes cooked with water and garlic. Both have olive oil and lemon juice. They are near neighbors on the yellowish end of the color spectrum. They do not, however, taste anything alike. Really. And, though hummus can be found in many a Greek restaurant, we choose not to serve it. I sometimes like to tell non-Greek people that hummus is a politically sensitive dish; that it makes some Greek people feel oppressed, since it is a recipe that has Ottoman Empire written all over it. Then again, the Greeks love their baklava and coffee, which were also introduced by the Turks, so there you have it.

Favosalata is itself confusing. The name of the dish would rightly lead one to think that this is a dish made from fresh or dried fava beans. In some cases, a favosalata can be exactly that-- a beautiful, vibrant green purée of fresh favas, with olive oil, a hint of feta, and fresh mint. This particular dish, however, is made from yellow split peas. Ideally, yellow split peas from the island of Thira (aka Santorini), where it is somewhat of a specialty.

I cannot be absolutely sure, but I am fairly certain that there are different recipes using different beans for this dish, and that someone out there in the blogoshpere, more than likely Greek, is going to tell me that this isn't the way they learned to make this dish. Well, gia sou, baby, bring it on. I'd love to hear about it. Seriously.

In the mean time, this is the hummus favosalata recipe I'm sticking to. Enjoy.

Favosalata

I sometimes call this my Friday-with-a-martini dip. Served slightly warm and liberally sprinkled with caper, onion, fresh lemon, and olive oil, it plays nicely with cold, cold gin. Scoop it up with pita, crackers, crusty bread, a spoon, your fingers, whatever.

Like a lot of things in cooking, this is a pretty elastic recipe. The measurement of ingredients is merely suggestive, not final. Want a your dip tangier? Add more lemon and vinegar. Saltier? Go for it. The key is the consistency of the peas. If you undercook them, the result will be unpleasant, if you overcook them, you've got mush. If forced to choose between the two, I would err towards the mush-end of the spectrum.

Makes about 4 cups, which serves about one in my house.

Ingredients:

1 pound yellow split peas (about three cups)

6 cloves of garlic, peeled and left whole

6 cups cold water

1 cup white wine (Optional. If using, subtract one cup of water.)

The juice of three lemons

2 tablespoons of white wine vinegar

2 tablespoons finely grated red onion

About 3/4 cup of extra virgin olive oil,

A liberal amount of salt, kosher or sea salt

Thinly sliced red onion, for garnish

Capers, also for garnish

Preparation:

1. In a medium-sized sauce pan or dutch oven (my preference), add split peas, water (and wine, if using), and a good dose of salt. Bring to a boil, then immediately reduce to a simmer until the peas are tender. I repeat: undercooking them will lead to an unappetizing texture; overcooking them will take you all the way to split pea soup, which certainly does not spell the end of the world, simply the end of this recipe. Cooking time: about 35 to 40 minutes.

2. When peas are done, remove from heat and strain into a cheesecloth-lined colander and gently strain, removing as much of the liquid as possible. Place the peas (along with the garlic they were cooked with) into a food processor or blender while still warm. Add the grated onion, lemon juice, and vinegar. Blend while drizzling in the olive oil. Note: you are not emulsifying the oil with anything, it is merely adding texture and flavor. Stop when the desired texture is reached, which is somewhere in the vicinity of smooth mashed potatoes.

3. Place desired serving amount in desired serving vessel, sprinkle with capers and sliced red onion, drizzle with olive oil and a squeeze of fresh lemon juice, and serve warm to those whom you desire to serve.

Where I work, there are a small handful of men who occasionally begin their sentences with the phrase "In my village..."

"In my village, we have a festival." "In my village, we would never treat an octopus in such a way."

These men can get away with saying such things as easily as they can get away with calling women "baby" because they are Greek. They have the accent, they have an old world charm about them that clings like the smell of clove and stale cigarette smoke.

And I have always been a little bit jealous. If I were to ever pepper my sentences with the words "In my village..." People would most likely assume it was Greenwich Village. And I can just forget about using the word "baby." Ever.

Well, I can get away with things they can't, too, like speaking only in Sondheim lyrics. And giving Greeks a hard time about, well, being so damned Greek. But it's only because I love them, I really do.

We clearly have our differences, but that is something I cherish. For example, in my childhood village of Anaheim, summer outings often included salads made from fresh Jell-o and organic, vine-ripened mini-marshmallows from my neighbors' gardens.

In the villages of my Greek co-workers, however, one will find strange, unnatural combinations. Things like tomatoes and cucumbers or, ripe watermelon and feta cheese.

They are crazy people, these Greeks.

Crazy good, I mean.

If you haven't tried this flavor combination, then you have not tasted summer. I know, that sounds like bad advertising copy, which is why I remain poor, but it's true, nevertheless.

Give it a go this weekend. I mean it. You'll thank me for it later, baby.

Karpouzi me Feta (Watermelon Salad)

Serves whoever, wherever and as many as you need.

I've brought this dish to a few picnics in my day. The initial reaction to it is usually one of strange curiosity. Watermelon and, what? Feta? How interesting. I would never have thought to pair watermelon with cheese.

Well, I'm glad somebody did.

This is such a pleasantly simple dish to make. And it takes about five minutes to create a big bowl or platterful. The watermelon, which smacks of summertime, offers a bit of sweet refreshment and hydration, while the cheese lends a bit of salty protein. And the olive oil, of course, gives you a shiny, healthy-looking coat. It is the perfect antidote to drinking alcohol in the hot sun and, therefore, the perfect Fourth of July picnic salad-- all Red, White, and Green, just like the American flag is to the marginally colorblind.

Ingredients:

One of the best things about this recipe is that there really is no recipe, just a list of ingredients. You want a lot of cheese? Go for it. Lots of olive oil? Absolutely. And let it dribble down your chest a little and rub it in for a deep, dark, Bain de Soleil-like golden tan. Delicious.

1 small, ripe seedless (or not) watermelon, rind removed and cut into reasonably-sized cubes

Feta cheese. Good feta. Greek Feta. From Epiros, if possible. Cubed or crumbled.

Good olive oil. Extra virgin. No, it does not have to be Greek.

Fresh basil, torn into small pieces. Or even oregano.

Toasted pine nuts or pumpkin seeds. I thought pumpkin seeds were an inspired choice given the pumpkin's shape and vine-grown status. That, and the fact that the pine nut bin at the store had been ravaged by the time I got there.

Preparation:

1. On a picnic platter or other, preferred serving dish, place cubed watermelon.

2. Crumble the feta over the watermelon, drizzle with olive oil, and sprinkle the mass with herb-of-choice and nut/seed-of-choice.

3. Serve immediately.

4. Watch the he-men crow and sweat over their grills while you kick back, have a drink, and accept compliments about your brilliant salad.

This year, the East (Greek and Russian Orthodox) and the West (Roman Catholic and its breakaway Protestant faiths) have booked the same banquet room, as it were, for Easter. The last time this happened was 2004. It will happen again in 2010. That date sounds marvelously futuristic. 2010.

As a child, I loved Easter-- it meant candy, cannoli, watching Judy Garland and Ann Miller and, quite possibly, money. My family's Easter rituals were nearly interchangeable with our Thanksgiving ones. We just traded in the turkey for a ham and wore brighter colors. Of course, there was one notable, Easter-specific activity...

The Easter Egg Hunt.

There was a certain lack of enthusiasm for the hunt at my house. My brother and sister were much older than I and, therefore, largely bored by it. While Betty Ford was busying herself on the South Lawn showing children how to roll Easter Eggs, the only things rolling at my house were the jaded eyes of my siblings. At least they were kind enough to humor me.

Saturday night was spent breaking out the Paas egg dyeing kit, creating two-toned eggs and trying to somehow work the accompanying decals onto the eggs without tearing them. My brother sometimes attempted to create narrative tension on the surface of his eggs, which is a challenge when pastel colors and bunnies are involved. I believe one year my sister dyed one egg blue and painted the original movie poster from Jaws onto it. If anyone could make an Easter egg look menacing, it would have to be my sister. Once finished, we would admire our handiwork until the nausea induced by the acrid smell of the Heinz white wine vinegar wafting up from the egg dyeing cups finally drove us away. And then, at some point during my sleeping hours, the eggs would go into hiding.

I never really understood why the eggs felt the need to hide themselves-- it's not as though anyone in my family really enjoyed eating hard boiled eggs. They were in no real danger. I would have preferred to decorate my bookshelf with them or plant one in the back yard and pray that something interesting grew from it. Perhaps they were afraid of being buried alive.

So they hid. Usually in the same places every year. One always found its way into the piano bench, another in the chandelier which I could never quite reach. We always made an even dozen. When ten or so were found, the already low level of enthusiasm would wane. My mother always stepped into the Judas role, betraying the hiding place of one of the eggs. Eventually, one hiding under the living room sofa or concealed in a recycled Country Crock margarine container would betray itself by its own putrefaction. Usually sometime in May. Or June.

This year, thanks to my new-found interest in things Greek (or, at least, my interest in one particular Canadian of Greek descent), I am embracing the Greek Easter egg. I made a dozen of them yesterday. Why I keep making an even dozen, I'll never know. I suppose it would be more correct to make thirteen, since there were thirteen people present at the Last Supper and that, it would seem, is what got this whole Easter ball --or egg--rolling. Remind me to do that next year.

The traditions involving the Greek Easter egg are much different from our own, and much more no-nonsense than, say, the Russians'. The Russian Easter egg is far too expensive to be produced yearly, but they are a good investment if you have the money. The Greeks don't bother to hide their eggs. Why hide food you know you're going to eat later? Unless, of course, one is re-enacting an historical event and therefore hiding it from the Turks or the Germans. No, they just dye them blood red and put them in the middle of their dinner table. There's more to it than that, of course. There's a power game involved.

What to do when confronted with a Greek Easter egg.

1. Show no fear. This egg will most likely be presented to you by a Greek person. They can smell fear almost as well as they can smell lamb or a bargain. Just keep calm, smile and say "Kalo Pascha."
2. This egg now in your possession will be given to you after a dinner of spit-roasted lamb and many glasses of wine or ouzo. Take it and partake in a symbolic and faintly violent game of egg smashing.
3. One person will turn to another participant seated next to him and say something in Greek. The other person will respond, also in Greek, and they will smash the pointed ends of their respective eggs together. The participant whose egg emerges uncracked moves on to his next victim.
4. If that next victim is you, he will say to you "Christos Anesti!" (Christ is risen!) to which you must respond, "Alithos Anesti!" (He is truly risen!") and smash your egg into his.
5. If you are victorious, repeat this process until all eggs except one are cracked. If that egg is yours, it means that Jesus likes you better than anyone else in the room and that you will have good luck throughout the year.

What it all means.

The red coloring of the eggs represents the Blood of Christ to the Greeks. I just happen to think they are highly attractive.

The cracking of the egg symbolizes Christ breaking out of his tomb as he rises from the dead. If this is true, then I don't really understand why the person with the uncracked egg is favored. If there is a crack anywhere, in my opinion, it is in the logic of this game. Perhaps the others are simply masking their grief for the damned soul of someone who is now certain never rise to heaven.

If you decide to play the game but are somewhat uncomfortable with so much Jesus talk, you might try substituting your own ritual call-and-response during the game. Something non-religious, yet still meaningful. One person shouting out a love for corduroy while his challenger announces his preference for suede is one such suggestion. I find the Greek tradition of being in such strong verbal agreement with each other while engaging in such aggressive behavior unconvincing and lacking in any real dramatic tension. I suppose if the first person shouted out the usual "Christ is risen!" and the second person responded "Actually, I think he's still napping" or "Christ was a Turk", there might be some tension. It is undoubtedly to my own advantage that I don't know how to say those things in Greek. But it might be exciting to witness, nevertheless.

How to make Greek Easter eggs if no one else is willing to make them for you:

First off, I must implore you not to follow my example. I read the badly translated instructions off the back of a Greek Easter egg dye package, which called for a cold dyeing. I was unwilling to go out and buy more eggs and dye them properly. I already have more hard boiled eggs than I know what to do with. As a result, my eggs look more like the pocked surface of Mars than the pure life force of a Savior whose blood is said to have come directly from King David on his Mother's side and, well, whatever flows through His Father's side of the family.

Here is a better recipe:

Ingredients:

12 uncooked eggs
Water
3/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 package of Greek Easter egg dye
Olive oil

Preparation:

1. Carefully wash and dry each egg (I missed this part, so it must be important).
2. Set a large pot of water to boil. Add egg dye and vinegar to the water and bring to a boil to dissolve dye.
3. Set water aside and let cool. Refrigerate for all I care. It seems that every recipe I've read calls for putting uncooked eggs into boiling or near-boiling water. This sound plain crazy to me. Perhaps it is some odd, Greek act of faith. Perhaps it is precisely because I lack that faith that my eggs came out spotty.
4. Set now-cooled water over stove and carefully add the eggs. Bring water to a boil and turn off heat.
5. Let eggs sit for 10 minutes, remove them carefully and allow to cool and dry.
6. Wipe eggs with olive oil-soaked paper towels.
7. Wipe now with a clean, dry soft cloth to remove excess oil and to polish.
8. Place them on your Easter table and let the fun begin.