Heretic Pesto

heretic n.
One who holds and persistently maintains an opinion or a doctrine at variance with the accepted standards of any school or party, and rejected or condemned by it; one who rejects a generally accepted belief.

Attack of the Clones
All of these plants were cloned from a bunch of basil purchased from the supermarket!

I have pretty good success with basil in my garden. I usually plant six or eight bushes and get a good harvest from them. This year I was a little behind the clock getting the garden started–I had to rebuild my garden boxes, and that took weeks longer than I had budgeted, what with a bad case of the flu and then the whole plague thingy holding the whole project back.

When I finally got everything in the ground, only four of my basil clones were suitable for transplant (you don’t have to buy expensive basil starts or even seeds. Check out this video for the fast and easy cloning procedure). But that was no problem: the yield was still pretty good.

Had to brush a bee away to take this
You can deadhead the plant for a week or two, but much longer than that and the leaves start to get tough

By the last week of July the plants were fully grown and trying hard to flower. I felt like a jerk brushing the bees out of the way to deadhead them (I swear, one looked at me, ‘Hey, I was eating that!) but by start of the second week of August, they were ready: time to harvest!

A bouquet of roses would not smell as sweet
Hard to convey just how much this is: it completely filled a large shopping bag!

The four plants yielded pretty well and the smell in the house was fantastic.

Denuded
Just the leaves and tender stems.

This much basil at one time just can’t be used up–I made a nice caprese salad, and threw some leaves in a tomato sandwich, but once stripped from their branches, these leaves were destined for greatness: they were going to be my yearly Heretic Pesto.

The right way

I call it that because it’s not pesto alla genovese at all, but rather a sauce made from basil, olive oil, garlic, and parmesan. The difference is that I use a blender instead of a mortar and pestle to make it. which pretty much enrages people from Genoa. Italian cooks are staunch about the ‘right way’ to cook anything, to the point where villages are convinced that the people who live ten kilometers away in the next village are insane because they use garlic in a recipe instead of the ‘right way’.

Which is pretty funny, since basil is native to India, the original sauce is from a Roman dish called moretum, made by crushing garlic, salt, cheese, herbs, olive oil and vinegar into a paste, and an early Genovese recipe for pesto calls for marjoram or parsley and Dutch cheese.

When I was a chef-de-partie I made 20 litres of Hollandaise, every single day. Never touch it, now.

Nevermind. I just like calling it Heretic Pesto, and my version is an emulsified sauce rather than a crushed paste. Emulsification is when two normally unmixable things, like oil and water, are brought together with an emulsifying agent that allows them to form a smooth, evenly distributed mix of the two, like homogenized milk or Hollandaise sauce.

Be sure to leaf the tub if you get too hot
Five litres or so of boiling water will do the job

To get my pesto to emulsify I have to blanch the basil leaves. This not only breaks down the cellulose, but also sets the colour of the leaves, keeping them a beautiful bright green. The colour never oxidises after the blanch, so it never goes black or brown and stays gorgeous even after freezing.

Garlic grows big in these parts
Toss the garlic into olive oil and put on low-medium heat until it starts to bubble, and then turn to low for 20 minutes.

There’s another trick I do with this sauce: because it’s emulsified, it’s lighter in flavour and hits the palate differently from the traditional kind and raw garlic really overpowers it. So I poach the garlic–lots and lots of it–in high-quality olive oil, until it’s soft, but before it picks up any colour. It makes for a rich, but deeply earthy and sweet garlic character, rather than the bright, punchy taste you’d get by putting garlic into a blender.

Once the basil is blanched and cooled, and the garlic is poached, it’s time to assemble the other players and made one more heresy happen.

Say, those aren't pine nuts . . .
The other players: parmesan, galic, salt, pepper and nuts.

Expensive, aged Parmigiano Reggiano cheese, check! Garlic, poached and on deck, check! Sea salt and fresh Malabar pepper, check! Pine nuts, no thank-you!

I hate pine nuts. They’re greasy little wads of no-flavour, cost like plutonium, and I have never managed to buy any that weren’t at least slightly rancid. Plus, they are extremely neutral in flavour, much like the over-hyped and tasteless macadamia nut.

In their place, I use flaked almonds. Almonds are nutty, slightly sweet and mildly woody, a perfect foil for this sauce. Your mileage may vary: you might adore pine nuts (ick) you might be able to buy them for less per pound than printer ink (good luck) and they may be fresh where you live. Good for you, I use almonds and love it.

It's about to get emulsified in here.
A sturdy, high-powered blender is essential to the process.

The final player on our stage is a really good blender. Many home blenders are designed to be used for 30-90 seconds at a time only, and long usage really tires them out. Buy a good one and you’ll never run out of Margaritas or excuses to drink them.

The process–could have saved you a long read by just posting this, but I enjoy typing words.

The sequence of making emulsified pesto goes like this: add about 1/3 of your blender’s capacity of blanched basil leaves. Whiz on high speed, adding just enough water to allow them to turn into teensy particles and form a smooth paste. Toss in about a half cup of nuts, gloop in a bunch (half a cup?) of olive oil, some poached garlic and a bit of the garlic oil, salt and pepper and keep whizzing until it looks great. Adjust with more salt/pepper and give it a final whizz. I’d be more accurate with the recipe, but there isn’t a recipe, just a process for turning blanched leaves into delicious sauce. Follow your heart.

This is wealth, real wealth
It’s a fine batch of pesto, enough for the fall and early winter.

One more trick up my sleeve: if you have enough basil that you need to make more than one batch in your blender like I do, don’t pour your containers full as you go: dump it all into a large measuring bowl and give it a quick stir to make sure all your pesto is evenly flavoured and homogenous-you can even adjust the salt and pepper a final time when you do that. Then you can fill freezer containers and chortle with glee at the bounty you’ve generated!

Food stylists hate him
Perfect summer meal

And there’s always enough left from the process to make a bit of pasta for that night’s dinner. But pesto isn’t just for pasta–try it on roast potatoes, as a sauce on a grilled steak, put it on your fish before you grill it, throw a dab on an oyster and put it on the barbecue . . . hmm, looks like I need to make more pesto.

Creamy goodness
Sealed tightly it freezes well for at least six months.

Of Weeds and Wonders

Home sweet home

The single greatest lesson the garden teaches is that our relationship to the planet need not be zero-sum, and that as long as the sun still shines and people still can plan and plant, think and do, we can, if we bother to try, find ways to provide for ourselves without diminishing the world.

— Michael Pollan

In all the years I lived in my parent’s house, I was a garden slave. My father had back problems and wasn’t able to do heavy work. Throw in the fact that I’m the size of a moose and while poorly inclined to manual labour, was capable of it if pressed, and I spent part of every summer adding endless loads of sand and peat moss to the leaden clay soil of our backyard, digging and shoveling.

When I left home I swore I’d never pick up a shovel in anger again. Gardening? Bah, that’s for chumps.

So, when I settled down in White Rock the very first thing I did was get a community garden plot and set to digging and shoveling.

Community Garden at Blackie Spit, 17 years on.

Gardening doesn’t just get under your fingernails, it gets into your soul. Every year I learn something new, every person I meet in the gardens tells me something important, every season brings challenges and surprises, and wonder of wonders, I really enjoy digging and shoveling. Go figure.

I did take away some lessons from enforced servitude at my parent’s plot: after a few years of amending the heavy clay of my community plot I gave up: even 10 cubic metres of peat and sand didn’t leaven the brick-hard yellowish clay (probably stratified clay related to the Puyallup Interglacial deposits all around the Lower Mainland) so I built boxes and filled them with light, airy topsoil, so friable and free-running it’s like cake mix. It was after that that I made real progress growing crucifers, carrots, peas, tomatoes, potatoes, herbs, lettuces, rhubarb, artichokes, berries, apples, et cetera.

Raspberries and blackcurrants

One of the things I’ve learned in the last few years is recognising that not everything you didn’t plant is a weed, and not all weeds are pests. A case in point is purslane. For a decade I cursed the stupid weed, having made the mistake of rototilling it to get rid of it. It can root from a stem, and torn-off stems can remain viable for decades, so a rototiller is the best way to spread it. Oy.

Shiny happy weed

A few year’s back a friend of mine was looking at my garden and openly admired my purslane. When I goggled at this, he goggled right back and asked why I wasn’t harvesting it for the table. Cue the light-bulb: not only did I not have to weed it anymore, I could just go ahead and eat it. That’s my kind of weed. It’s lightly tart, a bit like sorrel that way, and is a rich source of omega-3 oils, as well as a polysaccharide character–that means it’s kind of slimy, but in the same way that okra is, providing a lot of soluble dietary fibre. It wasn’t long before I was tossing purslane into salads and stir fries, and I began looking around for other ways to use it.

One of the dishes  is a pork and purslane stew with tomatillos. It was a recipe I found in Taunton’s Fine Cooking magazine, but as with any recipe I ignored the fine print and applied my own cooking preferences to it. It may not be authentic to the original Mexican cook who made it, but it’s a big hit around Chaos Manor.

Gotta get off all that good soil

Step one is to harvest and wash the purslane, and then pick it over. You want mostly the leaves, and the tender little stems near the tip of the plant. You can eat the thicker stems, but they’re a little woody and tend to be bitter.

That’ll do, pig

Step two is to get a big honkin’ pork shoulder roast. It needs to be nice and fatty. Seriously people, stop eating so much lean pork. It doesn’t have good texture and it’s nearly as bland as chicken breast when it’s too lean. Fat is where the flavour and the fat-soluble nutrients are, and eating fat is really good for you. I found a nice-looking four-pounder at my butcher and proceeded to chunk it up in 1.5 inch cubes.

Salt and pepper go together like . . . a mineral and a dried berry?

I got a pan smoking hot, tossed the pork cubes with a generous coating of salt and pepper and proceeded to brown it off in small batches.

I’m awfully fond of this

The trick to getting good flavour out a cut of meat is to brown it well, developing all the richness that Maillard reactions (caramelizing, sort-of) bring to it. That brown goo on the bottom of the pot is rich, tawny gold. The French call it ‘fond’ and it’s the basis for a deeply meaty experience. Don’t waste a speck of it.

While I was browning off the pork I assembled the usual suspects for this dish.

Onions, cilantro, cumin, tomatillos

I was in great good luck the day I decided to make this dish: my local greengrocer had fresh tomatillos in stock, for the first time this year. I even had to explain to the nice-but-terribly-young lady at the checkout what they were. No matter, she was truly interested in what the weird old man was cooking up this time.

Medium slices: they’re going to cook down to nothing anyway.

Onions get sliced up, and the garlic gets finely diced. Because I brown the hell out of my onions (more below) I saved the garlic aside to add after they were done, because garlic gets bitter if it’s the least bit burnt.

Brown them hard

I cooked the onions until they were dark brown and completely soft, using the liquid that came out of them to loosen the fond off of the bottom of the pot and bring it to the party. The sugars in the onion will caramelize a long, long way and you can cook the living whee out of them and they’ll add more depth and colour to the stew.

Unwrap and wash before use

While the onions were cooking way, way down I de-papered and washed the tomatillos. They do look like a really green tomato, but they’re quite different. the flesh is much firmer and less watery, and they’re more citrusy and resiny-sappy than even the greenest tomato.

I rarely have less than three gallons of chicken stock on hand. One never can predict chicken-related emergencies.

When the onions had fully submitted to my will, I added about a litre of homemade chicken stock. Getting homemade chickens is the hardest part of making it. I scraped and stirred to make sure the pot was fully deglazed.

Godspeed my little green friends

With the heat turned to high I slid in the tomatillos and (not shown) the chopped garlic and the toasted and ground cumin.

Seared and crispy

I added the pork back. I tasted a few pieces and seriously? I could have sat with a fork and a little hot sauce and eaten a pound of that pork, it was so crispy from the fat being well-browned. I could tell even before cooking this was really going to come together.

Happy green weed

You can see in this picture that the purslane has been relieved of thick stems and nicely cleaned up. The pot is getting full, but the purslane will cook down and I was planning on boiling off at least 1/3 of the volume.

Plantains are the grown-up of bananas, kind of starchy and boring unless you know how to spice them up.

While the stew was cooking down I put on a pot of rice and prepped plantains. They’re kind of a cross between an actual banana and a starchy vegetable. Fried in butter and hit with salt, a little brown sugar and some lime juice, they’re really tasty. I usually add some allspice and nutmeg and chopped Scotch Bonnet pepper, but this stew is Mexican (ostensibly) not Jamaican, so I held off.

Fried bananas anyone?

Once the plantains were planted in the pan, it was time to check on the stew.

Reduced and raucous

It had reduced to a wonderfully deep and rich stew, thickened by the purslane. The flavours are complex, but clear. I have a bug about dishes with too many non-complimentary or non-contrasting/counterpointing elements. They seem muddy to me. This stew has the richness and savoury development of the pork cut by the acidity of the tomatillos and the purslane with a bit of a bass note from the cumin and sweetness from the onions, pretty much the way I like my flavour profiles.

Then, to the plate.

Yes, it’s a hearty portion, but I was in the garden all day!

A handful of chopped cilantro, a squeeze of lime, a daub of thick yogurt and a dab of habanero sauce and it was a little bit of heaven. There’s enough leftover to freeze for future meals, and I put a bit aside for Hot Tub and Nacho Night. It will make a great topping for nachos, with the addition of some pickled jalapenos to spice it up.

That was the meal that was. Now that I’m back to freelancing again (need a brilliant copywriter? Shoot me an email. I also do education, brand championship, marketing, strategic consulting, and promotions. Let’s talk.) I’ll have time to do more blogging and catch up with some issues and ideas that I have been itching to cover. See you soon.