i have a little tin can sitting on my windowsill; pretty little sprouts of green are just peeking through to soak in the sunshine. while i was washing dishes tonight, i glanced at those little leaves and my mind filled with a summer gone by.
i have a friend who grows an amazing garden (actually i have quite a few friends with fabulous gardens- why isn’t their ability rubbing off on me?) he can grow anything well; and he is generous (the best gardeners always are). one summer his abundant garden produced a plethora of basil. green basil, and purple basil, all kinds of basil in excess. his wife (one of my besties) came to my house arms laden with bags full of basil, and we made pesto. we made pesto all summer; we ate pesto on freshly baked crusty white bread. she sat at my kitchen counter, and we talked life and kids and cooking and preserving and we ate pesto. it is a memory of summer and friendship and real food, made fresh and made well. it is a memory of smells and tastes and grit on my hands from basil pulled freshly from the ground. it is a memory of joy.
so tonight when i peered into that little tin can and spied those green basil sprouts i was full of joy; because food is an essential part of our lives. it is memory; it is nourishment; it is giving and sharing and enjoying goodness together.
i miss my friends whom now live to far away to partake in pesto making and eating. but basil in my garden and in my kitchen this summer will make them feel closer. and i will gather new friends, while i think about my old friends. we will eat pesto for lunch, and we will make new memories.
a few handfuls of basil
bunches of freshly minced garlic
a handful of almonds
a couple good pours of extra virgin olive oil
a few shakes of parmesan cheese
put it all in a food processor and process til its pasty; put a couple spoonfuls on a plate with another pour of olive oil. dip some warm crusty bread in there and scoop up a good amount— enjoy!