The Mija Chronicles

Mexican food and culture, on both sides of the border

pumpkin seeds

Swiss chard pesto, with pumpkin seeds and queso añejo

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One of the funny things about living in Mexico City is that it’s tough to find basil here. The big bunches of fresh Genovese basil don’t really exist — I’ve seen them once in two years, at the Mercado El 100.

We also don’t get a large variety of year-round greens. We’ve got spinach and chard, and quintoniles and quelites in the rainy season. But I feel a pang in my heart whenever I hear Americans talking about kale, broccoli rabe and collards. Oh well. We’ve got mamey and drippy, juicy manila mangoes, and they don’t.

The point is: I’m always looking for new ways to prepare my old chard-and-spinach standbys. A few weeks ago, I saw a recipe for swiss chard pesto in Sunset magazine. How perfect! Why hadn’t I ever thought of that before?

(You may be asking what the heck I’m doing thumbing through Sunset magazine when I live in Mexico City. My mom, who lives in Washington, occasionally buys it for me. She subscribed when I was a kid, and the magazine still reminds me of all the things I love about California — the sunshine, the fresh produce, the constant promise of eating dinners outside. Mexico feels like that at times.)

I ended up making Sunset’s pesto recipe a half-dozen times, Mexicanizing the ingredients where possible. I swapped out the walnuts for pine nuts and then pumpkin seeds, and the parmesan for queso añejo. I also added more garlic, because there’s never enough for me. Although I will definitively tell you that five cloves is too much. Aack.

All of the pestos were pretty great: the pine-nut version was creamier and nuttier than other pestos I’ve tried, while the pumpkin seed-añejo was slightly more crumbly, salty and sharp. (I didn’t make it with walnuts, because those are in season only once a year here.) Drizzling the pesto over steamed chayote was just about perfect, even though the entire thing was green. I also bought some beet pasta from a little shop near Mercado San Juan, which made for a colorful purple-and-green dinner. Crayton said it looked like Mardi Gras.

Here’s the recipe, in case you’re looking for something quick to make for dinner. I may even try it with epazote, which is growing like a weed outside my window.

Swiss Chard Pesto
Adapted slightly from Sunset Magazine
Serves 4 with sauce left over

Note: Don’t feel hemmed in by the amount of chard you use. The original recipe called for two cups, but I didn’t want to be bothered with measuring the leaves, so I just started using the entire bunch. You could also save the stems for a soup or to chop and stew into a taco filling later, with some tomatoes and spinach.

Ingredients

1 bunch swiss chard (around 7 ounces), leaves removed, stems discarded or saved for another use
2 cloves garlic, peeled
1/4 cup grated queso añejo, or grated parmesan
1/2 cup pine nuts or pumpkin seeds
1/4 cup olive oil — possibly a little more if you’re using the pumpkin seeds
Salt
Pepper

Directions

In a food processor, add the garlic and pulse to chop. Then add the chard, cheese and nuts or seeds. Pulse until smooth — feel free to scrape down the sides of the bowl to add in any errant cheese or chard bits. Add olive oil and blend until smooth. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Serve with pasta, vegetables, or (as I did with my sister-in-law recently) spread on crusty bread.

Sikil pak (creamy Mexican pumpkin-seed dip)

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I’ve made sikil pak three times in the past month, and each time I’d stare at the pile of pumpkin seeds in the bowl and think, “There’s no way I’m going to eat all this.” But then I would. Twice I split a batch with Crayton, and the other time I ate the whole thing myself with some tortillas I’d heated up on the stove.

Sikil pak has the comfort of an herbed cream cheese you’d spread on a cracker, and the meatiness of a mushroom or eggplant chutney. It doesn’t contain any dairy or even any major vegetables — just a few scoops of pumpkin seeds ground to dust, mixed with garlic, onion, water and some tomate verde. It’s great on tortilla chips, warm tortillas, cucumber slices, and (I’m imagining for next time) crusty slices of baguette.

I first came across sikil pak about a year ago while thumbing through Diana Kennedy cookbook, searching for things to serve at my tamalada. I hadn’t seen this dish anywhere in Mexico City, so I was intrigued. Kennedy’s directions sounded easy — toast the pumpkin seeds, grind them in a spice or coffee grinder, and add boiled tomatoes and spices. Unfortunately I added too many salted, unshelled pumpkin seeds and the dip came out too sharp and almost woodsy-tasting. Strangely, it tasted like it had meat in it.

A few months ago, I saw another sikil pak recipe in one of my Cocina Estado Por Estado magazines devoted to Campeche. Turns out Sikil Pak is typical to Campeche and the Yucatán, which explains why I hadn’t seen it locally.

This recipe called for using raw, shelled pumpkin seeds and roasted tomate verde, onion and garlic. I decided to make the dish in the molcajete, because my cooking instructors have drilled into me that it’s better.

The result was totally unlike the weird chunky red thing I’d made before. It was thick like hummus and glossy like mayonnaise. Grinding it by hand, I had much more control over the texture — were the seeds too dry and powdery? Did they need water? Pues ándale. I’ll add a few spoonfuls. I got to see how the dip changed with each step, and what gave it that creamy white color. (Water and the juices of the tomatoes.)

The next time I made sikil pak, I used the food processor because I was hungry and tired and didn’t want to spend 30 minutes grinding. The dip wasn’t the same. I was too scared the seeds would turn into peanut butter in the food processor, so I didn’t pulse them finely enough. Instead of hummus/mayonnaise, I had a chunky spread. Not bad, but not as good.

Plus… I don’t know. I missed being closer to the ingredients. To grind everything with my own hands, twisting the tejolete, ignoring the dull ache in my wrist — I was actively involved in preparing the food, and that meant something to me, because food was nourishment and our bodies depended on it.

So yesterday, with the Bears game on TV and both Crayton and I yearning for game-day snacks (well, more me than him), I took out the molcajete and put it on the coffee table. I ground the dip during the first quarter and we enjoyed it with tortilla chips I’d baked in the oven.

I didn’t enjoy every single minute — several times I looked down at the bowl crusted with chunks of half-ground pumpkin seeds and thought, “I just don’t have the wrist strength for this. This dip will never be done.” But in the end, I had my creamy wonder, and I was happy I stuck it out.

Recipe below.
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