Wednesday, November 16, 2011

804




One bowl of homemade pesto, so many memories.


Over 16 years ago, when Geoff and I had decided we were officially going out, he met my parents. We had dinner at Toofeys in Carlton. That was the first time I ate and liked olives, Geoff and my parents also. Small tasty ligurian olives.


When we were first married and travelling around Europe on our honeymoon, we were in Italy when the new olive oils were released. We were in a small village, perhaps Vinci, and they were releasing the new olive oils. There were a few local producers who had set up stands within the shadow of the town's church. There was a charcoal grill where they toasted bread, bruschetta. At the end a lady picked the pieces, rubbed a garlic clove across them, tossed them on a plastic plate and passed them to the next lady who liberally doused them with the vivid green olive and handed them to us. No hard sell, just taste. Peppery, grassy, olivey absolutely delicious, our first taste of new season's oil.


A trip with Geoff's parents through Provence, gosh in the early 2000's. A visit to Arles and the linen bought from a store near the bull ring.






My first herb and vegetable gardens, my own, growing basil, the pleasure the joy of making pesto myself, although my mum's is still better.


These are some of the reasons why food brings me so much job. Thankfully I can resist the eating, keep that within check, but it's the making and the memories that brings, that keep me in the kitchen.

2 comments:

two little buttons said...

oh i so agree, food has so many memories. i too can recall similar stories about cetain food, places ive eaten etc and hopefully like you , with our own gardens our children will have memories like we do.

manda said...

oh pesto how i love you.....i'd rather do the growing and the eating but i would happily skip the making in the kitchen part. . . your pesto looks so delicious x