For me, pesto is the perfect expression of all that is good about summer. I love the stuff, especially when there are fresh tomatoes upon which it is slathered.
Today, I made pesto. It was a very lonely experience.
Last night, I stemmed the basil Rich grew for me. This morning, it was combined with bulk garlic, olive oil, parmesan, and pine nuts from my beloved local market using a hand held blender tool of some sort (after I discovered I had gotten rid of my food processor in the move). Tonight, it was simply scrumptious with roasted eggplant and red peppers. Rich became a little concerned about the noises of enjoyment I was making while consuming my dinner.
Making pesto is sort of a spiritual experience for me. My first memory of pesto production was in the Victorian house Gene and I shared with my dear friend Pat and her (then) partner, Mary. There were septs going down into the kitchen, upon which Pat and I sat all day one Saturday stemming an incredibly large harvest of basil. I do not know how many jars we filled that day, but I do remember that the quantities of pesto we ate we abnormally large.
I have since tried to recreate that experience in every place I have lived. Thee were wonderful "pesto parties" at my houses in Marshfield and in Springfield, made special by the friends and family who were there. Today, my orderly, quiet preparation paled in comparison.
One of my goals for this next year: to have a loud, bawdy group of women with whom to make pseto next year.
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