The surest sign for him that summer had arrived was the smell of fresh basil. There were other signs, of course. He particularly enjoyed that first summer storm, the thunder and the lightning, and the new warm feeling to the rain that differentiated it from the cold, often dreary storms of spring. When the flowers gave way to that lush shade of green that would remain until the air, that warming breeze, turned cold and the emerald shades of the hills would turn to ruby, then amber, and then back to slate. All of these things he was excited for, and appreciated. But there was something about basil, an herb at once slightly sweet, powerfully refreshing, and distinctly aromatic, that meant summer to him.
He wondered, as he walked to the corner of the garden where it grew, whether it had something to do with the things basil usually accompanied. The tomatoes, he was happy to note, were coming in well, although they were a long way away from turning red, yellow, and purple. Thoughts of proper tomato sauces, simmered low, and finished with sprigs of fresh basil, filled his mind and awoke his already whet appetite. The marriage of basil’s herbaceous edge and the proper sweetness of a ripe tomato was one of the most harmonious things he encountered.
Or, maybe, it was something to do with just how well basil grew. He had underestimated it, once. It only took a summer of eight towering plants for him to realize, perhaps, and only for that single summer, there could be too much of a good thing. He had nearly grown sick of basil then, a thought he couldn’t help but laugh at now, and determined that, like many of life’s pleasures, it was something to be had in moderation. Appreciative, seasonal moderation intended to indulge in while he had it, and to mourn for while it was absent.
That contrast, like the contrast of the seasons, was one of the many lessons he had learned from basil. During that summer, he had also learned the pleasures of a basil margarita and the basil gimlet. Both were wonderfully refreshing, and appropriately seasonal, drinks that he consumed to not quite the point of excess in service of eliminating all the excess basil threatening to overtake the garden. This year he had determined not to let it get that out of hand, not that there wasn’t already a bottle of gin standing by should that happen again. There would, of course, be less of a need for excess basil anyway. He had planned at the end of last summer to reduce down to two plants. Changing circumstances necessitated a further reduction to a single, though still prosperous, stand of basil.
He sat beside his plant, and took the moment of still before he got to work to appreciate the fact that it was already quite aromatic. There really was nothing like fresh basil. The months and months that slid by at a glacial place, with equally bleak scenery, were devoid of anything like it, unless he felt tempted to try and bring home one of the plants standing gloomily beside supermarket shelves covered in bland tomatoes and imported garlic. Those imposter plants robbed basil of its seasonal importance- all the things that it symbolized and everything that it promised to relieve and revitalize.
Things like the sun, warmer now than it ever was in winter, and the smell of the earth under that warming sun. Things like the breeze, and the birds singing a greater harmony than he’d known under the drudgery of icy, silent winter skies. That was the memories he wanted to hold when it came time to plant and pick fresh, truly summer grown, basil. Although this would be the first summer he was harvesting it alone, there was still something to be said about the promises that the fresh basil held. At least he would eat well, and at least he wouldn’t have to be afraid of having too little. He chuckled in memory of the summers he’d had too much. They were fond memories, even if he didn’t feel like reliving them just yet.
He moved to begin harvesting the plant’s first real leaves in an effort to stave the thoughts off for at least a little while longer, careful to pinch and avoid tearing the parts that would keep growing through the summer. That was important. Too much damage would rob the plant of its ability to keep growing as much as he knew basil could. That growth was something he could still rely on, and offered comfort if only for its reliability. As long as summer was warm, sunlight plentiful, and his efforts didn’t saturate the plant’s roots, there would be basil for the duration of the season.
There was only one proper use for summer’s first batch of fresh basil. That was a fact, as plain as the setting sun. He made sure that he had enough leaves, shoved off from the ground, and walked back to the house. The view of the garden from the front door was one of his favorites. He stopped to admire it, as familiar for its constant presence as it was different for the subtle ways it shifted planting to planting. This year it was smaller. But that was alright. The sun shined the same way. The sky turned that same shade of orange before it would as surely shift to red, then violet, and then midnight blue. The leaves he carried with him would, as sure as any other natural force, make a fine pesto.
The trick to pesto was harmonizing everything disparate and beautiful about several powerful ingredients. The strength of pesto lay in that balance, too. He set the basil on the counter, filled a pot of water to boil pasta in, then reached for a cutting board. He had learned early, when they had made pesto together that, for all the pungency of garlic, too little was a more egregious crime than too much. Four cloves, then, crushed to help remove the skins and then roughly chopped. Parmesan cheese, actual Parmigiano Reggiano, bold and salty and unctuous, grated to make it easier to blend. A high-quality olive oil, imported, and bought at some small store in a town they stopped at on their way somewhere else. Preferably, something with a peppery edge that wouldn’t get lost in the mix. And then…
He’d almost forgotten! That would have been a silly mistake. He reached under the counter for a small pan and placed it atop a burner beside the nearly boiling pasta water. Pine nuts, toasted for their full quality to be appreciated. That nutty, browned, unmatched flavor and aroma was so essential for pesto. Now that that was solved, he could turn his attention back to his mise and to the final step, save for boiling the pasta.
Blending everything together wasn’t particularly time consuming or even necessarily delicate, but he felt like it was. There was a need to respect not only the basil, but everything else that went together. The beauty in the pesto’s simplicity lasted only as long as it was respected. Anything out of place, or nearly forgotten like toasted pine nuts, threatened the entire exercise. But that kind of focus, and the respect that drove it, offered more serenity than anxiety. Devotion to something as pure as simple as summer’s first pesto was a practice in creating beauty more than worrying over messing up. He knew if there was a little too much oil, or a tad too little cheese, that the pesto would not be entirely ruined. It would be different, and in that difference lay the same beauty as his changing garden or the diminished supply of fresh basil this summer brought. But it would still be pesto, and therefore would still be a constant. It would be delicious, comforting, and as lively as he could remember.
The pungency of the basil permeated the kitchen, and only increased his nearly overwhelming hunger.
All that was left was to boil the pasta, a relatively quick task with the fresh noodles he’d prepared that afternoon, and set two plates on the small table by the window. He snapped his fingers, and smiled. He should also pour a glass of wine. Something equally pungent and herbaceous. Sauvignon or Veltliner? The latter, of course. That was his preference.
He set the glass aside to strain the pasta and put it in a bowl beside the blender. There was a joy in really seeing it come together, in watching the pasta turn a verdant green and in watching the pesto’s elements reveal themselves amongst the mix. Flecks of the fresh, aromatic basil, bits of the textural, toasted pine nuts, and minute, pungent bits of garlic and parmesan all wrapped in that luscious, flavorful oil. That was the start of summer. That was honoring fresh basil. That was exactly what his stomach, and his soul, needed.
But he only needed to fill one bowl this time. The other sat across from him, empty like the wine glass he’d placed at the setting too. He sat down at his spot and watched the sun set. It would rise again tomorrow. Summer was here. The basil was growing. The pesto was delicious. Joys like that remained a constant, even if there were suddenly so many new variables. He’d made it, and that was proof enough that he could keep growing.