I’d grown basil every summer for six years, thinking, oh,
boy, I can’t wait to try making pesto! But I'd never used more than a few
sprigs for roasted tomatoes or chicken. Now, with the chilly nights of late
summer rapidly approaching, my basil’s rich green leaves would
soon turn a pale, sickly lime, dotted with brown spots. Then the plants would curl up
their toes and my chance to make basil pesto would vamoose.
Not this time, I vowed. Besides running out of summer,
though, I had another obstacle to pesto-making: no food processor. Which was
required for every pesto recipe I’ve ever read. I never missed having a blender or processor--I aim for DIY rather than kitchen gadgets. But I’d recently inherited a lovely marble
mortar and pestle from my sweet mother-in-law, and just harvested an abundant
crop of garlic. Now, armed with a recipe in the July “O” magazine, I had no
excuses.
I plucked several handfuls of basil, gently washed it (a few
ants were hanging around), and tore the leaves off the stems. I carefully
measured it to make two cups. I peeled and minced five cloves of garlic, then
roasted and finely chopped a cup of walnuts (Don’t much care for pine nuts,
plus they’re really expensive. And I really like walnuts.) I started with a few
basil leaves in the marble bowl of my mortar and pestle, and started grinding
vigorously. After several minutes, all I had to show for it was some bruised
basil leaves. This could take a really long time.
I dug out John's hand immersion blender, that I use a couple of times
of year to puree winter squash for “pumpkin” pie. I piled the basil, along with
the garlic and walnuts, into a bowl. The recipe called for a ½ cup of olive
oil, a teaspoon of salt, and another of sugar, none of which sounded right to
me. Foregoing the sugar altogether, I put a pinch of sea salt into the mixture,
added a quarter cup of extra-virgin olive oil (1/2 cup seemed like too much
too), and fired up the blender.
Well, I worked my ingredients until my arm was sore, but I
had nothing that quite resembled a “paste”—just some mooshed up basil. The
walnuts and garlic was still pretty intact. Plus the blender was majorly
overheating. I’d just have to work with what I had. I boiled up some organic pasta,
drained it, and swirled some olive oil into it. Feeling my confidence ebb, I piled
the lumpy mixture into the pasta, along with a handful of grated Dubliner
cheese. If my experiment tasted as awful as it looked, I’d just wasted all
those wonderful fresh ingredients, plus an hour that I could have spent
outside, tending Berryridge Farm.
With trepidation, I swirled a forkful of spaghetti, and took
a bite. It was like an explosion of flavor! It was like I’d never tasted
anything so rich, garlicky, zesty, herby, nutty. I savored every mouthful, and
had seconds to boot. I figured I’d have the worst garlic breath ever, but maybe
the greens of the basil and the oil had mellowed the garlic. It was, hands-down,
the best meal I’d eaten in a long time. A whole teaspoon of salt and sugar
would have probably ruined it. Since then, I’ve made my simpler living basil “pesto” three times, and it’s
become one of our favorite go-to summer meals.
