Pesto al Gusto

I can’t remember the first time I tasted classic pesto, but I do remember it was love at first bite. That heady blend of basil, parmesan, and garlic—with deep base notes of extra virgin olive oil and buttery pine nuts—was intoxicating. It wasn’t long before I was making this fragrant sauce in my own kitchen.

In fact, it’s the main reason I grow basil in my garden. Sure, I love to be able to step outside to gather fresh basil leaves to make a Caprese salad, but this can also be accomplished with some sprigs from the market. Since large quantities of basil are needed to make pesto  (4 packed cups to make 1½ cups of pesto, generally the amount needed for 16 ounces of pasta), it’s most convenient and economical to grow your own, specifically the variety Basilico Genovese. 

Preferably the basil should be young and tender, without any of the bitterness that can come as the plant matures. That being said, I always make a batch this time of year with basil I put in back in late May, and it tastes just fine. Because removing the leaves from the stems is labor intensive and necessary, I like to set aside time to make a big batch all at once and freeze it in individual containers. The sauce keeps well in the freezer and is like a blast of summer in the middle of winter for those of us who live in northern climates.

To harvest basil, I cut the plant way back, stems and all, and fill up a large trash bag. I haul it into my kitchen and instantly the herb’s fragrance fills the space, transforming it into an Italian cucina. Classic pesto originated in northern Italy, in Genoa specifically. I had the good fortune to eat it in its native home several years ago, not far from Genoa.

My family was visiting Italy with my mom, my sister, and her two kids, and that simple but memorable meal was, for me, one of the highlights of trip. We had spent the day hiking the trails of Cinque Terre, 

followed by a swim in the Ligurian Sea. 

By the time we arrived at the restaurant, we were ravenous. When our bowls of pasta were served, we devoured them, washed down with some of the local wine. Whenever I eat pesto pasta now, the memory of that beautiful day resurfaces. One of the best things about food, after all, is the memories it carries.

Categorized as a pounded herb sauce, pesto gets its name from the Italian verb pestare, which means to pound or to crush. Traditionally this was done in a marble mortar using a wooden pestle, but today the modern food processor makes easy work of the process. 

According to custom, the ingredients are blended in a specific order. First the garlic is mashed, followed by the pine nuts, which forms a paste.  Then the basil leaves are added, along with a bit of coarse salt that helps to break down the leaves. Olive oil, the base of so much of Italian cuisine, follows; finally grated Parmigiano Reggiano imparts an incomparable tang and creaminess. Purists would add a little pecorino as well, but it’s not necessary. 

Although simple to make, when pesto is stirred into pasta, slathered on flatbread, or smeared on a sandwich, it’s transformative. I have a hard time thinking of foods that aren’t improved by it. It makes a delicious condiment spooned over grilled chicken, fish, or vegetables, or served with bruschetta or a soft cheese. It jazzes up a cream sauce or mayonnaise, and can even stand alone as a dip. Add a dollop to a salad, tuck it into an omelet, or swirl it into a soup just before serving, as is done with pistou, a nutless Southern French version of pesto. Once you start incorporating pesto into your regular meals, you’ll wonder how you ever lived without it.

I never tire of classic pesto, but variations on the five main ingredients keep things interesting. You can switch out one ingredient, like using a different nut, for a subtle change. Walnuts are a popular replacement for pine nuts, making the pesto earthier. Almonds, hazelnuts, and pistachios are all good options as well.

Another subtle change is to vary the oil, replacing it completely or by half. Since there are so many excellent choices out there, this is an easy way to play around with flavor. I especially like using part walnut oil or a few tablespoons of argan oil for a more pronounced nuttiness. Simply omitting the garlic is another simple, but not so subtle, change, or you can merely dial it down by using garlic chives or scapes instead. If you’re sticking with garlic cloves, makes sure they’re fresh, young cloves, which are less pungent. To lighten the pesto, omit the cheese. This will make the sauce less creamy, and the taste of the oil will be more noticeable.

You can also of course alter the recipe completely, such as making a cilantro-cashew-sesame oil combination; I like to serve this Asian-inspired pesto with grilled fish. Arugula pesto, another favorite, has the benefit of being much less labor intensive than basil pesto since you don’t have to remove the leaves from the stems. It’s also easier to find large quantities of arugula (preferably baby arugula) in the market, and the sauce stays bright green instead of turning dark from oxidizing like basil pesto can. 

Watercress is another alternative to basil, as are mixed herbs, which you can vary according to the season or the dish you’re serving the pesto with. Getting creative with different combinations is one of the beauties of pesto. The only rule I suggest following is to use the highest quality ingredients you can find. 

Even though the official end date of summer is still a couple weeks away, today—Labor Day—always feels like the last day. These final few weeks with their muted colors and touch of coolness in the air are some of my favorite weeks of the year, but they also bring with them a bit of melancholy. It won’t be long before the remaining basil in my garden will be nipped by frost. Knowing I have an ample supply of pesto in my freezer if I need a taste of summer—or of Italy—in the coming months makes this transition easier.

CLASSIC BASIL PESTO

MAKES ABOUT 1½ CUPS

2-3 cloves garlic

1/3 cup pine nuts

4 cups packed basil leaves—preferably Genovese

2/3 cup extra-virgin olive oil

½ cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

3 tablespoons grated pecorino

coarse sea salt, to taste

freshly ground black pepper

Using a food processor, process the garlic and pine nuts. Add the basil, olive oil, and cheese and process until smooth.  Using a spatula, push down any basil on the sides of the bowl. Season with salt and pepper and process for 15 more seconds.

*Pesto keeps for up to 3 days in the refrigerator in an airtight container. To preserve its color, pour olive oil over the surface, or cover it with a small piece of plastic wrap. To freeze, put 1½ cups of pesto in individual containers. Freeze for up to 6 months.

Planet Lovely

May is the month when those of us who live in Vermont (or much of the Northeast for that matter) are transplanted from Planet Harsh to Planet Lovely. The world truly is transformed. For the next six months we live in a state of green, or of green green, as a German friend said to me yesterday, recalling a description from a childhood story. The young grass and unfolding leaves on the trees and shrubs are so vivid they almost glow. At this point early in the season, there are myriad shades of green, too numerous to count. But as the summer progresses, they tend to converge into a more uniform green, for which perhaps the state was named: vert mont, or green mountain from the French. My favorite patch of green though, my herb garden, remains a mosaic of different shades, from the bright shoots of Chives poking up through the ground

Essential Ingredients

Now that the dust has settled in my kitchen after the Thanksgiving frenzy, and the leftovers have dwindled to a pot of soup in the fridge, it’s time to think about December cooking and baking. I’ve written about some holiday favorites before, but lately I’ve been thinking about essential ingredients—what goes into those favorites, what I cannot do without. They break down naturally into the five sensations our tongue’s taste receptors respond to: salty, sweet, bitter, sour, and umami. For those not familiar with umami, a more recent addition, it’s the Japanese word for “savory deliciousness” and is associated with foods high in glutamate, such as fish, meat, specific vegetables, and fermented and aged foods. Although difficult to define, it’s glaringly obvious when umami is missing. I found it challenging to come up with a list of just ten essentials, but have narrowed it down by limiting it to ingredients I never eat on their own.

Sea salt, preferably coarse: Salt of the earth, grain of salt, worth one’s salt—there’s a reason so many common expressions involve salt and that “salary” is derived from the word. It’s a necessary mineral in the human body, not just an ingredient, and offers sensual satisfaction as well. Unfortunately it’s often applied with an indiscriminate hand, but a judicious amount of salt enhances the flavor of just about anything, and can even be transformative. Think of the difference between plain potatoes and potatoes with a sprinkling of salt…no comparison. 

Southern Exposure

I’ve been on the road again, this time to the Southeast, specifically Virginia and North Carolina. We packed up the car and drove down, crossing the Mason-Dixon Line near the town in Maryland where I spent most of my childhood. Growing up, I didn’t think of myself as a Southerner. Maryland, despite being below the Line, was technically a border state during the Civil War. The Battle of Antietam, which resulted in Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, was just down the road, but at the same time one of my high school acquaintances was a direct descendent of Robert E. Lee. And the street I grew up on has a former slave auction block, now partially obscured by some shrubbery, on one of its corners.

Mmmmmorocco

In celebration of my fiftieth birthday, Chris and I recently went on a long-awaited trip to Morocco. Morocco is a country that’s intrigued me ever since I read the novel The Sheltering Sky, one of my Top Ten, over twenty years ago. I had never been to Africa before, nor to an Islamic country, and it proved to be no less fascinating and enchanting and bewildering than I had anticipated.

Dinner Under the Pergola

To me, the finest summer meal celebrates our garden, which is just coming into its own right about now.  Since it’s on the small side, I usually need to supplement with the produce of other local growers and producers, so the meal becomes a local foods fête in the best sense of the word. When the weather cooperates, I like to eat under our pergola, which feels like an airy room framed on one side by the garden, and on the other by a row of raspberry bushes, with grape vines, wisteria, and weeping larch entwining overhead. If asked to visualize a happy place, I would put dinner under our pergola at the top of my list.

Soup, Glorious Soup

During this season of overly rich foods, soup offers a healthy alternative meal when we’re not indulging in holiday excess (not that I mind a little indulgence every now and again). Soup leaves me feeling satisfied, but it’s light at the same time—unless it’s a cream based soup, in which case it qualifies as more of an indulgence. But hey, ‘tis the season.

The Ultimate Comfort Food

During this month of endless political polls, I’m conducting my own survey—on The Ultimate Comfort Food. What’s yours? Many of you prefer to email me directly instead of leaving a comment, so feel free to do either, although other readers may find your choices interesting and inspiring. One of the best parts of fall in my opinion is the shift to cozy, heartier foods. What foods do you choose to make or eat to warm your soul?

Ten Reasons I Love My Food Co-op

Not only has the UN declared 2012 to be the International Year of Cooperatives, but the month of October has also been deemed National Co-op Month. So what better time is there to celebrate my favorite cooperative, Middlebury Natural Foods Co-op (affectionately known as MNFC or the Co-op)? Here are ten reasons to show your local co-op some love:

The Good Stuff

It’s been one of those months when I’ve had too much on my plate—and not the good stuff. I’ve been overloaded with metaphorical canned peas. But now they’ve thankfully been swiped into the compost, and what better way to celebrate than to throw a dinner party.

We’ve had a string of beautiful late summer days here in Vermont, with a hint of fall in the air and clear, slanting light that reminds me of the South of France. I like to celebrate this time of year by inviting some friends over for dinner under our pergola.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

Profuse weeds, tendonitis, and tainted compost—the garden has presented more than its usual share of challenges this year. Weeds are nothing new, but with the record-breaking warm weather they’ve been more out of control than ever. Keeping up with the weeds brought on a flair-up of tendonitis in my elbow, something I’ve dealt with before but this time it’s been particularly tenacious. And then there was the contaminated compost, a mysterious occurrence that has devastated hundreds of Vermont gardeners who thought they were buying organic compost, only to find out that it was polluted with two herbicides that are banned in the state. Not the best gardening season by a long shot.

Despite the setbacks, the garden has had its rewards. Early crops of French breakfast radishes,

24 Hours in the Life of a Town

A Photostory from the 4th of July: Celebrating Bristol's 250th Birthday

Getting Ready

Fresh from the Garden

Lakeside Picnic

When people from out of state think of Vermont, skiing, cheese, and maple syrup usually come to mind—and by extension, Vermont’s inspiring mountains and rolling farmland. Many people forget about majestic Lake Champlain that runs the length of the northern half of western Vermont, providing the lifeblood of the fertile Champlain Valley.

The lake is edged dramatically on its New York side by the Adirondack Mountains, which provide spectacular sunsets for us Vermonters gazing west. On the lake’s eastern edge, the gentler Green Mountains rise more gradually out of rich farmland.

Putting in the Garden, Part 1

Ahhh, the garden. Dirt under my fingernails, the smell of soil, sweat, and sunscreen, and a soreness that lasts for days. It’s a wonder that I love it as much as I do. But I do love it, the whole process, from the time I order my seeds in late winter all the way up until I harvest the final Brussels sprouts around Thanksgiving. It’s my little corner of the world that I can control, to some extent, and beautify; my playtime and therapy all rolled into one.

The key to a healthy garden is of course the soil. When I started gardening twenty years ago after we bought our house, our soil was ok: previously neglected, but not in terrible shape because the yard used to be a horse pasture. Over the years, we’ve added lots of kitchen compost as well as composted cow manure, so the soil is now wonderfully fertile and friable.

Measuring  just fifteen  by nineteen feet, my garden is not very big. Each year when I put it in, the space always feels too small, but as the season progresses I’m amazed at the amount of vegetables it produces. It’s framed on the left by an unruly perennial bed and along the back by a pergola that Chris and I built around ten years ago, using cedar from a row of spindly trees we took down on the property.