Post-o

Those who know me know that I somewhat dubiously claim to be Italian. That is to say, my great-grandfather Antonio emigrated from Venezia Giulia when he was young and became, apparently, an ice cream vendor.  All the rest of my ancestors are relentlessly British and Irish. Generally, the extent of Antonio’s legacy is our lovely last name, but genetically I seem to have gotten most of the Italian in the family. This has given me a very Roman nose, eyebrows that are always on the verge of riot, a tendency to talk with my hands, an innate sense for when pasta is done, and a fierce love of pesto.

Pesto is a delicious concoction. I use it on all kinds of things: spread over turkey sandwiches or pizza dough, mixed into vegetable soup, stirred into scrambled eggs, tossed with pasta. For the longest time I was only acquainted with the jarred stuff, because the availability of fresh basil in my area was pitiful. You’ve seen those plastic trays in the produce section– one or two tiny, anemic sprigs that look like the wrong side of a DNR order. For this I am expected to pay three dollars? Psh. PSH, I say.

This all changed when I moved someplace with a farmer’s market. For two bucks, I could buy a lush, fragrant bundle of organic basil as big as my head. No, literally, as big as my head.

I am romping through a veritable forest of basil.

Giddily, I took one home, determined to finally make my own batch of my favorite condiment. This post is dedicated to my best friend Katie, who has made her own for years and showed me just how easy it was. This recipe is hers, with some tweaking.