 |
| Self-made pesto in mortar by Flusel |
By Mary Kubik
Growing up in Lambertville, I knew warmer weather was approaching when I heard my dad calling me from down the hallway to go for a bike ride along the Delaware Canal towpath. I would barely make it out of the gate before he bellowed “helmet!” in a deep, baritone voice. Once the helmet was on, any attempts at appearing cool vanished, as none of the other neighborhood kids were forced to wear one. But dad’s advice was that it was better to be alive and dorky than cool and dead.
Our average ride was 2 miles and our destinations consisted of two places. One
was a boat dock and access to it required a ride down a hill that jerked your
body around more than a roller-coaster. Our other, no doubt preferred,
destination was what the townies refer to as the “wing dam.” It is a concrete
structure about 15 feet wide and 150 feet long that extends into the river. In
either location, an immediate rock-skipping contest took place. Once the victor
had reached eight skips, we would sit and talk while watching the sunset.
Popular topics for conversation included soccer, which was our favorite sport,
and what I wanted to be when I grew up, which changed constantly.
Returning home from a ride, dad’s move was to fill a glass with ice and grapefruit juice, often returning to the fridge for another refill. I stuck with the classic, boring choice of plain water. After we had quenched our thirst and replaced the liquid our bodies had sweated out, it was time for making pesto. Every ride would end with pesto. This was my favorite part.
With two older brothers whose interest in bike rides and cooking was minimal, I was the one chosen to be the chef’s assistant, which gave me a sense of purpose and satisfaction. My job was to peel the basil leaves and most importantly, to be the taste tester. Together my dad and I would take a piece from a fresh baguette he had purchased earlier that day and dip it into the blender filled with the creamy, pungent, savory pesto mixture. As we slowly chewed on our bits of bread, letting our taste buds absorb the various tastes, we would contemplate what ingredient needed to be increased. What would take it from merely good to brilliant? Was it more pine nuts, garlic, olive oil or basil leaves? Sometimes it would be olive oil -- olive oil he insisted must come from Italy. Usually we wanted more garlic. Garlic is the golden ingredient. Everything could use more garlic. Any guests who tried dad’s pesto were first asked if they liked garlic. The garlic sticks with you until the next day, the smell emanates from your fingertips. To me, that is what made the dish.
After trying 20 or some odd pestos from various restaurants
and countries, my dad’s pesto comes out on top. I rarely find that there is
enough garlic added to the mix, an ingredient that in my opinion complements
the earthy and subdued flavors of the pine nuts, and the smooth, lush flavor of
good olive oil. Most pestos are bland, tasting like grass and grainy chunks of
dirt, generally lacking the punching flavor I recall so
well.
January of this year my dad got a job at University College
London as the chair of the Eastern European Studies Department and will be
there indefinitely. While we Skype often, and discuss my future visits to
London, the absence of his presence in my daily life has left an emptiness. I
long to hear the bellowing cry of “helmet!” that used to embarrass me when I
was a teenager. Since his departure, I went on a pesto search. In all
pesto-tasting situations, I stared at the plate, announced to myself, “You will
be the next best pesto, my friend?” Perhaps I hoped to find a pesto that would
immediately transport me back to those bike-riding days.
After many failed pesto tastings, I accept that I will have
to wait for him to visit until I can finally savor the sauce I love and desire.
Making it together, side-by-side, dipping piece after of baguette into the
mixture until it was just right, that is what made the pesto. I vow to one day
share the art of pesto-making with my children the way my dad did with me, giving
them their own feelings and flavors of specialness. No restaurant can serve
that on plate.
Mary Kubik is a senior at Rutgers University, majoring in
Journalism and Media studies with a minor in History.
