Spring. Brilliant, cerulean skies. Cool, woollen, hearth hugging evenings. Blossoms squeeze tiredly out of the trees. The change from winter seemingly to have happened overnight, so quick it came. I am not cocky though. Summer has yet to arrive.
Granite. Speckled black, solid, cold. Its ergonomic shape, turning the ominous sensuous, appeals to my senses. The pestle and mortar anticipate my deft hands. The pestle, as heavy as the mortar is solid, waits to crush, to pound, to pulp. I lift them to the kitchen´s work surface with some ease. I go to the gym!
Basil. While the bunched pale green stems sit coolly in an enamel jug in the corner, they fill the kitchen with the sweetest of aromas. I do not take delight in plucking each and every leaf, even though my nose flares with the delicious perfume, nor leaving sad spears for discarding. A naked still life. The destruction is not wanton.
A singular clove of garlic, plump and rose coloured is placed under the heel of my hand. I force it down, feeling it give, feeling the skin split and the scented oil dab my skin. My vegetable knife, small and sharp, trims the root, and the parchment is pulled away. The clove is set aside.
The fizz of the match. The whoomph as the gas takes. I pour a handful of pine nuts from a jar into a small frying pan and start rolling them around as the heat increases. They only need to warm through. To release their perfume, their oils. They give a particular creamy, toasty smell. I tilt the frying pan to let them fall into the cooling granite mortar. I pick the rest of them up from the surface, I need a frying pan with a milk pan´s lip (™!).
I open the fridge door and stare at the top shelf. Behind the confitures, the chutneys, the bread, an upturned lemon on a saucer, oh, and the glass butter dish, the butter slightly crusted with crumbs, not me. Behind all of that, wrapped in waxed paper and foil, is Parmigiano Reggiano. Cheese. Waxy, crumbly, saline, it promises enrichment. I find a fine grater and slowly slide the wedge downwards, flurries of flavour float onto a board.
Crystalline kosher salt, a good pinch, not a greedy one, is thrown in from above into the mortar. Sea salt is like confetti, it must be scattered not sprinkled, shaken, or poured. Well, that is my opinion. It will cut, lacerate, and preserve the colour of the leaves. Kosher salt is not kosher but is used in the koshering process to draw out the last of the blood and impurities, hence the name. But I digress.
In goes the garlic. In goes half the basil. The pestle melds to my hand as I start to pound, rotate, and grind the contents. I could put everything into a blender, but there is nothing more satisfying than the steady rhythmic movement that comes from this method. Rotate and grind people. Rotate and grind.
The cheese I add with a few more leaves, layering and mixing, churning and pulsing. Adding a little more bit by bit. Finally, I reach out for a bottle of olive oil. Quality oil. Extra virgin oil. Grassy, peppery, green-amber liquid drizzles into the mixture, changing the motion sound into a glop-glop-glopping foot in mud echo. Unctuous, emerald, glistening, flecked with pine nuts and cheese, the pesto is ready. I pour it into a jar carefully, ensuring every last drop is saved. With a marker pen I label the jar “pesto”. Who could guess?
A quick wipe of the surface and the next stage will begin.
Flour. A conical pile in the centre of my work surface. Brilliant, bleached, super fine, white flour. Doppio “O”. My index finger, pushed into the top, makes minute circular movements creating a hole in the centre of the mound. I have already taken a large egg out of the fridge door. I crack the shell on the edge of the work surface and thumb it open. It drops dead centre into the flour. The effect is a white mountain with golden lava. Stromboli. The tiniest splash of oil and I knife the yolk. Swirling the yellow into the glassy clear white, the glassy white into the amber green. Then flip the flour into the egg, working around the edge, working it inwards. The mix slowly turning liquid solid. My hands come in at the point where the knife goes. I am bringing it all together with my palms. I have, in minutes, a dough. Pale yellow. Moist. It needs to rest. I wrap it in plastic and put it in the fridge. At the front. On a lower shelf. Away from the jams, bread, and butter.
Eggs. A chef in Rome shared the secret of pasta to me. The daffodil yellow pasta in his kitchen came from the eggs of Livornese hens. Their yolks so rich in colour it was as if he had added turmeric, saffron, food colouring. So rich in colour, I needed sunglasses. I don´t have that breed available to me. My pasta is as pale as a Scandinavian on a Greek beach.
From under the work bench, at the back of a cupboard, I get it out. The contraption. The machine. Its box is covered with dust and a dark, once used, web. But the machine inside glistens. Its chrome skin sparkling in the sun´s light. In technical parlance there is a big bit with rolly things, a handle thing and a grippy thing. Fortunately, I taught pasta making at food festivals. I know what to do.
I bring the pasta maker to the edge of the surface and use the clamp to set it in place. I insert the handle into the roller´s socket and turn the thickness adjustor to maximum. A floured surface in front of the pasta machine. I bring out the rested pasta. Using my hands, I shape it appropriately to feed into the rollers. One feed. The handle rotates. A sheet of pasta rushes out. Click. I turn the adjustor to reduce the thickness. Next feed. Rotate. Click. Feed again. Quick. Click. Click. Click. The handle turning reminding me of a laundry mangle. But the sheet is that of pasta not linen.
It is, after several passes, a long, thin, stretch of pasta that sits ruched on the surface. Thin enough, almost, to see my hand through it. I flour it and fold it gently. Using my knife, I trim the sides, and then slice ribbons. I toss them in flour and hang them over a string line one end knotted to a cupboard handle the other the fridge door, to dry a little.
Tagliatelle. I know. I know. It. Is. Not. Trofie. The only pasta shape for pesto. The pasta only from Liguria. Only, I am not there.
In San Remo, the casino town in Liguria. I had my first genuine Pesto alla Genovese. It was transformational. Life changing. What had been an ordinarily nice, simple, dish, a pauper´s pasta plate fit for students, became a belly filling feast. A hearty meal. Chips in.
I won´t make it any other way.
Green beans. French beans. Haricot vert. String Beans. Beans. Beans. Beans. Long, round, thin. Holding the bunch in my hand, I trim the tails, discarding the rooty ends. The tips, their curled, come-here finger ends stay. They add a pleasing visual element to the dish. My knife cuts them into bite sized lengths.
I peel some potatoes. They are small and waxy. Creamy in colour, creamy in flavour. The knife cuts them into slices as thick as the pasta is wide.
I have a pan of salted water ready to go. It is boiling vigorously waiting for the vegetables. Waiting for the pasta. Waiting. Steaming. The vegetables go in together. If I were braver, I would put everything in at once. The pasta, potatoes and beans. But I am not.
I knife a potato, softly testing the resistance of the starchy slice. I chew a bean, hot and gently giving to the bite. The anticipation of things coming together at the right time, the perfect moment, is thrilling as it is worrying. I smile at my fortune that this time they are done. Together.
More salt in the water. I bring it back up to a rolling boil ready for the pasta. The hanging tagliatelle that has formed the slightest sandy, leathery feel. I gather it together and toss it into the bubbling liquid. Tongs stirring to prevent them sticking together.
An urgency. A necessity to move quickly. Timing is everything now. Verdi´s Kyrie Eleison, playing in the background, adds a curiously furious intensity.
Pasta. The sauté pan is on. A chunk of butter. Enriching. A drop of oil to prevent it burning. In some parts of Liguria, the butter is already in the pesto. I never knew. The vegetables go in. Sizzling sounds as I lift the pan, a flicking wrist action, the toss of a chef, the contents, mixing, heating. I am careful not to break the potato slices. I get a jug to save some starchy water before draining, shaking and tonging the pasta into the pan.
I reach for the jar, the jar labelled “pesto”, the jar with pesto in. I spoon some into the sauté pan. Pouring some starchy water over the pesto to loosen the sauce. Swirling motions and another light toss. Off the heat and into a heated bowl, the tongs helping to shape the pile into something more appealing than green gloop. Cheese. Grated and sprinkled on top. Pepper. You want pepper? I ignore the mess. The pots, the pans, the crumb scattered surfaces. They are for later. I sit hunched over my bowl ready to devour. Pesto alla Genovese.
Spring. The evening chill, the moment the sun seems to lose its heat. Springtime hearty food fills my stomach and soul while I await the summer yet to arrive. With every mouthful, my mind reaches back to memories of Italy; my head in the northernmost corner of the Mediterranean; my heart amongst seaweed, rocky waters, and slow lapping waves of Portofino. But my mouth, my mouth is here in this small piece of Italy I have in a bowl.
Bravo maestro!
Very visual and sensuous!