Up to My Earlobes in Basil by Patricia Wellingham-Jones
Each spring I tuck inch-high plants
into trenches fragrant with manure.
All summer I snip basil sprigs
to sprinkle on baked potatoes, salads, meat,
on trays of sliced tomatoes fresh from the garden.
Basil goes in at least one dish every night
for three months, or more, of each year.
In September the plants look scraggly,
the steady drip of winter rain plays through my mind.
I can put off that set-aside day no longer.
Prepared for the siege, I set the radio on the kitchen counter,
tune to a classics’ station, keep mug and tea close at hand.
Send husband away for as long as he’ll go.
Early, before the sun crisps the leaves,
I harvest the crop. This takes twenty minutes.
Flat baskets spilled on newspapers present my day’s work.
Gazing at the brush pile heaped on the table top
I hope I left the mice and lizards outside. For the next five hours
my fingers pick individual leaves from their stalks.
Two big bowls of leaves later, I flat-press garlic, remove skins.
Crush walnuts from the old tree by the road. Pour olive oil
into the blender, add handfuls of leaves, garlic and nuts.
Press the mass down with my mother-in-law’s wooden spoon,
puree. Do it again. Repeat, and repeat. The pesto-making
takes only one hour.
Ice cube trays filled with next winter’s meals
congeal in the freezer. Vermicelli bubbles
in a pot of boiling water. I pull out the parmesan cheese
for the scraps of pesto left in the bowl, pour a glass
of California chardonnay and toast myself, thankful
for the harvest. Thankful that I’m no longer
up to my earlobes in basil.
