A Basil Rekindling

Last summer, basil and I saw each other a lot. In fact, you could say that we were "going steady." I bought one of those living basil plants from Earth Fare and planted it in a pot by the front porch. It was in full sun, and it rewarded me by basically becoming a small bonsai, trimmed at least twice a week by my not-so-expert hand for pesto, salads, and garnish.

Seriously, I froze nine batches of pesto last summer, not counting the batches I made fresh and served that night. I went a little overboard. I got tired of pesto (watch your sassy mouth, you say!). But I did. I  treated my aroma-filled kitchen as just another room in my house.

My ambivalence lasted through the winter, through dinner with friends who gushed over it; in fact, my "over it" attitude was still around last week.

I had dutifully planted another basil plant this year in my new place, employing my "Go With God" method*.

As you can see,  poor 2012 edition is limping along.

There hasn't been any pesto, any Caprese Salad, and frankly, I was still feeling mostly ok with that. Until last Thursday.

It was a blazing sweaty-degrees at 10 a.m. on Thursday morning when I visited City Roots Urban Farm in Columbia. The farm shed was filled with the heady scent of basil when we arrived, and we walked through and continued to the fields, the greenhouse, the beehives, the chicken coop, and rows of basil.

Just picked basil, gone to flower

Rows of basil at City Roots

I swooned a bit.

Regaining my composure, I continued my writing research in SC's Capital City, but basil was ready to rekindle our relationship. He knew the way to my heart -- through a well-fashioned cocktail.

My first brush with him came at The Vault with a St. Germain-laced concoction garnished with basil and lemon. You had me at hello.

But then, things got serious at The Whig. We drank City Roots Basil-infused vodka cocktails, simple and as brightly green as the rows of plants from which they were derived. Oh, how I've missed you, my lovely, I thought. You with your heady licorice scent and taste of green.

The next morning, I bought a bunch to take home and fill my kitchen with the smell of pesto once again, pulling out my recipe stained with olive oil:

the simple recipe copied from Food.com

The delicious results are summer and sunshine and all things bright. And beautiful.

Just blended pesto

And after my dinner tonight, there's some to put in the freezer. I doubt we'll tire of each other again.

*"Go With God" method: Plant plant. Water plant. Check plant for the next couple of days. Talk nicely to plant. Water one more time. Cross yourself, and wish plant well. "Good luck, you now have to adapt in this ecosystem. No babying for you. Go With God."

Stand By for Fresh Ice

If you're interested in reading my latest "away from the blog writing," an article on the Art of Mixology in Charleston, you'll have to get a print copy of the latest issue of The Local Palate. It was a fun research assignment, getting behind the bar to see the infusions, concoctions, mixtures and in general, obsessions of some of Charleston's masters.

However, there is an excerpt online, which is about The Gin Joint and Joe Raya's focus on ice. That's right. He says it is the most important, yet most overlooked, part of a beverage.

I am into ice. In the little kitchen, I ditched those dollar-store cube trays a while ago and started buying a bag every now and again to keep in the freezer. No ice maker, you say? Well, you obviously haven't seen my fridge or you wouldn't say that.

I use my ice cube tray for pesto now -- like this, but it's a red tray

But we know that ice makes a difference. Like those little pellets of ice that come with your diner fountain soda. Or the shaved ice that comes from the most perfect snoball stand on Magazine Street in New Orleans. Or the ice I shot through my straw across an elementary school cafeteria table that started an epic food fight and got me cleaning gum under the tables and scared of lunch lady/MY bus driver Mrs. Williams until I started junior high ...

But the best ice of all is marinated ice. Next time, ask your bartender for that when you order your next drink. But don't ask Joe Raya -- he probably won't like it.