Pesto

There are so many varieties to this gorgeous idea of herbs and olive oil blended and tossed over pasta. Parsley . . . Cilantro . . . Rosemary . . . I even whip up a batch of Balsamic-Lemon Spinach Pesto that’s really delightful! But truly, my favorite variety is the traditional one.
Basil.
The earthy sweetness. Crisp and almost acidic, but not quite. Green like fresh grass. It’s hard to find a meal I enjoy more than one that includes fresh pesto. And knowing this about myself, I planted ten basil plants in my garden this year. That’s right. Ten. And I might double that next year. I have no shame.

My two oldest girls and I cut a bunch, washed them up, and whipped up a lovely batch of pesto this week. I spooned it generously over three-cheese ravioli and fresh grape tomatoes. Sprinkled with parmesan, only a loaf of crusty bread would have made it better. Next time.

PESTO 
1 large bunch of basil—roughly 2 cups of leaves, washed, and stems removed
1/2 cup of olive oil
1/2 grated parmesan cheese
1 heaping teaspoon garlic
dash of lemon juice

Pine nuts are traditionally part of a solid pesto recipe, but I’m not a fan, so I left them out. If you like them, roast two tablespoons in a hot sauté pan with a splash of olive oil and salt until they brown. Set aside on paper toweling and allow to cool.

In a food processor, whirl basil leaves, olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and parmesan, scraping down sides of the bowl frequently for about a minute, or until a thick, smooth paste forms.

Everyone has a different opinion about the thickness of a proper pesto. The beauty of making your own, means you get to decide what that looks like! Feel free to add more olive oil if you prefer your pesto a little thinner.
At this point you would also add the roasted pine nuts if you enjoy them.
Whirl again, scraping down the sides of the bowl.

Serve over pasta of your choice, hot or cold.

To store: divide between small jars and freeze what you intend keep beyond immediate use.
Enjoy!

 

Refrigerator Pickles

Look at this. It’s the last day in July. I can’t even.
This summer got away from me in a flurry of summer storms, and random illnesses, old house issues, and remodel projects. Blogging had to take a necessary backseat to survival for a little bit. But look! Here are some pickles. The world is feeling right again.

Women have been preserving fruits and veggies and meats and all manner of foods for decades. They learned from their mothers who learned from their mothers, and as a result, some of us were lucky enough to have mothers who canned. But the rest of us have had to try and pick it up on our own here and there, throwing in heathy doses of apprehension along the way. What if I do it wrong? What if I poison my family? What if I break jars while boiling them and get glass in everything?
Enter Refrigerator Pickles.

Refrigerator pickles are one of those preserving miracles that feel a little like cheating. Canning without canning! It’s awesome. It’s also a great place to start if you’re new to preserving and nervous about the process. No boiling jars, no bacteria fears, and yet, boom. Preserving!

I have a crazy batch of cucumbers in my garden this year and they produce the most adorable little cucumbers. But they are very seedy. I hate seedy pickles. So instead of slicing my cucumbers or even chipping them, I cut them in half, scooped out the seeds, and sliced them up. Feel free to experiment a little when contriving pickling recipes. I like garlic dill with a hint of sweetness, but not sweet like bread-and-butter pickles. This recipe reflects my preferences. Try it and then adjust to your own likes and dislikes!

I started with a dozen cucumbers, 6″ to 9″ inches in length. Once sliced, they filled five quart jars. The brine recipe is built for five jars of pickles, so adjust accordingly if you have more cucumbers.

 

REFRIGERATOR PICKLES

12 cucumbers, 6″ to 9″ inches in length.
4 cups of water
2 cups white vinegar
2 tablespoons Kosher salt
2 tablespoons white sugar
Garlic (enough for 2-3 cloves per jar, or a heaping teaspoon of diced garlic per jar)
Big bunch of dill
1/2 teaspoon Mustard seeds per jar
1/2 teaspoon Black Peppercorns per jar

In a saucepan, boil 1 cup of vinegar, 1 cup of water, salt and sugar until they dissolve. Remove from heat and add the remaining water and vinegar—preferably cold so as to cool the boiled mixture down to room temp. If the brine goes into the jars over the cucumbers hot, they will get soft instead of staying firm and crunchy in your fridge.

Fill each jar equally with cucumber spears, or chips, or slices—whichever cut you prefer. Don’t pack them too tightly as the breathing room will make the pickling process more effective. To each jar add garlic, mustard seeds, peppercorns, and several heads of dill. Just cram them right down in the jar with the cucumbers. Don’t worry about looks here. It’s more about making everything fit. Fill the jar with the brine (cooled to room temp) until the cucumbers are just covered. Tightly cover with either a plastic lid or a metal canning jar lid and band, and gently shake to distribute the dill, mustard and peppercorns. Repeat with each jar and then refrigerate for at least 7 days before opening a jar to sample.
The pickles will keep in your refrigerator for four to five weeks.
Enjoy!

 

 

 

making butter

So this isn’t really a recipe post as much as a reflection post . . . because one doesn’t really need a recipe for making butter.
To make butter: Pour whole cream into a bowl, add a dash of salt, whip the daylights out of it, and presto: Butter.

But the actual act of making butter connects you to something else. Something beautiful and nourishing and transformational. Is that an exaggeration? I don’t know. But making butter, for me, feels like all of those things.

As I sit on the counter, watching my stand mixer do the work housewives before me grew blisters for, I marvel at their tenacity. Their determination to do something good for their people. And gratitude is the only word I can think of. I’m thankful for them. For these women, all of them, who came before me to make the world what it continues to become. I’m thankful they cared enough about their people to do the work, day after day. To nourish and feed and love and build life out of nothing. Do to transformational work—in the kitchen and out. I think it fair to call butter making an allegorical act. A work that tells a story. In making butter, one useful nourishing thing is changed into another useful nourishing thing. And isn’t that what it is, to parent and cook? To wife and partner? To work and build and grow? We change ourselves, and those around us, with small daily acts, from one thing into another.

So as you go about this week, take a minute. Pause. Remember. You’re making butter. In and out of the kitchen. As men and women ages before you have done. The unseen, blister-growing, heart work that transforms lives. Well done. Churn on.