Place the yogurt in a cheesecloth-lined strainer and let drain for 1 hour.

For the dough: While the yogurt is draining, combine the white and whole-wheat flours and half teaspoon salt on a work surface. Make a well in the center. Mix together the whole egg, yolk and water; pour into the well in the flour. Using a fork, gradually bring the flour into the well to mix together. Using a pastry scraper and your hands, gather the mixture into a ball and knead for 2 to 3 minutes. It will be a rough dough. Wrap in plastic wrap and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. For the sauce: Pour the chicken stock into a saucepan and reduce over high heat to half cup. Combine half of the stock, the drained yogurt, garlic and olive oil. Mix with a wooden spoon until light and creamy. Season with salt and pepper. Set aside at room temperature.

For the filling: Combine the lamb, onion and parsley; season with salt and pepper. Knead together for 2 minutes; set aside.

Divide the dough into 4 equal pieces. Cover with an inverted bowl so the dough doesn't dry out.

Lightly dust a work surface and rolling pin with rice flour. Place one of the dough quarters on the work surface and roll out until you can almost see the outline of your hand through it.

Alternatively, you may use a pasta machine, rolling the dough to approximately 0 cm thick.

Cut the dough into 6 cm squares. Place a scant half teaspoon of the filling in the center of each square. Lightly mist the squares with a spray bottle filled with water. Fold each square in half to form a triangle. Press together to seal edges. Place the ravioli on a floured baking sheet in a single layer. Repeat with the remaining dough.

Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Drop the ravioli into the water and simmer for 3 to 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the pasta is cooked. Strain and toss with the remaining reduced chicken stock.

To serve, toss the ravioli with yogurt sauce. Transfer to a platter and garnish with mint.

Serves 8.

[PER SERVING: 280 calories, 16 g protein, 30 g carbohydrate, 10 g fat (4 g saturated), 90 mg cholesterol, 206 mg sodium, 2 g fiber.] *Recipes from a little pension in the village of Gvreme, Cappadocia, Turkey. Travel story: "A Delectable Cuisine in an Eerie Landscape," by Joanne Weir Wednesday, March 11, 1090ºC or San Francisco Chronicle.

Wednesday, June 11, 1997 � Page 8 �1997 San Francisco Chronicle --------------------------------------------------------------------------Recipes from Stoyanof's, the Greek neighborhood taverna out in the avenues (San Fran). Story "Cherished Greek Dish in a Plain Paper Wrapper," by Joanne Weir for the San Francisco Chronicle, June 11, 1997.

Over a platter of meze, the Greek equivalent to Spanish tapas, owner Angel Stoyanof told me a story he knew all too well. "In Greece, they never baked klephtiko in foil like they do nowadays," he said. "Brown paper or parchment has always been used. It started years ago, when there was no such thing as aluminum foil. Curiously, the word comes from klephtise, meaning to steal, or a thief, maybe even kleptomaniac." I'd eaten the dish before in Greece, once in the little village of Plaka on the island of Crete. A menu tacked precariously to a board read that if you ordered a few days in advance, the cook would make you klephtiko. In seconds, I was inside the door ordering.

``With garlic?'' the cook asked. Now that's a silly question, I thought, ``Of course!'' I said.

A couple nights later, I arrived at the restaurant. I took a seat at a table, all the tables set outside along the sea, within a corral of what looked like white Christmas lights.

Before I knew it, a creamy bowl of tzatziki -yogurt, redolent of garlic, mint and dill -was brought to the table. And minutes later, like a present, a singed, parchment-wrapped package, set on a platter, was delivered to the table. Carefully, the package was opened.

Before me was a fork-tender chunk of lamb, cooked at a very low temperature for a very long time. Studded with garlic, and perfumed with cinnamon and bay leaves, the smells of klephtiko were about all I could handle.

I kept remembering that meal when I was talking to Angel, back in San Francisco, and Angel's story. Seems that during the war, there was a tremendous amount of poverty in Greece. Home ovens were a rarity, and the baker's communal oven was a meeting place, to talk politics, discuss the kids, the harvest, the weather or whatever, and exchange a few drachma to cook a pot of beans if you were poor, or roast a chunk of lamb if times were good.

However, times were tough and there was a shortage of meat, so farmers watched their barnyards closely for fear of neighbors coming to steal their chickens, their goats, maybe even their lambs.

But how could the thief take the meat to be baked in the communal ovens without anyone knowing? He got smart. If he wrapped it in parchment paper, oiled brown paper or even newspaper, no one knew what was inside and what he might be having for dinner.

Originally klephtiko was anything baked in paper, but eventually it became a traditional way of cooking fish or meat, especially baby lamb. It was a terrific way to keep the juices inside the package, and ensure a moist and juicy finished product.

And it works just as well here. When Angel brought out a platter of the most perfectly roasted baby lamb cooked in parchment, I'd swear that in the distance, I heard the gentle waves lapping on the Mediterranean shore. -----------------------------------------------------------Kitpath@earthlink.net 0. 291545189504.38