White Pants, Basil Pesto, and The Benediction

Labor Day has just passed, which means it is not, historically-speaking, fashionably appropriate for me to wear my most comfortable white pants anymore. (I still wear them however, because my wardrobe is clearly not as large as the wardrobes of the wealthy New Yorkers who made this rule in the late 19^th century.) The sun is starting to peer into my window a little later in the morning and is going down earlier than I would prefer in the evening. Temperatures are starting to cool, and the lawn is regaining its strength after a brutally hot Maryland summer; straw struggling to turn green. Yellow school buses with flashing red lights and protuberant stop signs again grace the road, and crossing guards are thankfully back to work.  And, what all this tells me, is that I have one more harvest of basil leaves left in my garden.

Growing up, my parents were avid gardeners. The garden they created was huge and took up a large portion of our backyard. My father constructed a high, industrial-looking fence to keep out fur-clad bandits, and I remember my parents laying black plastic on the ground with circles cut out where the seeds were planted to minimize weeds. And I was regularly entertained when they chased away the groundhog who would try to get into the garden (we affectionately named him [or her] Freddie).  My parents spent an immense amount of their summertime tending to their garden and they loved sharing their bulk produce with neighbors and friends. My mother baked, canned and cooked all summer with the herbs and vegetables they harvested, saving up food for winter. And, as a child, I figured one day I would have a garden of my own (…and groundhog, which as an animal lover, was really the better part).

I inherited so many of my parents’ qualities and traits. Hard working, yes. Creative, yup. Good cook, apparently. But gardening? Definitely not. Over the years, I have tried planting many things, and what I have learned through much trial and error, is that I am good at only growing basil. Seriously, just basil. My parents used to plant tomatoes, zucchini, watermelon, herbs, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuces, peppers, peas, and so much more! I can grow basil. Maybe a little parsley, but even parsley is pushing my horticultural envelope.

I am grateful that I am at least capable of growing basil because I LOVE Italian pesto and the main ingredient in pesto is… freshly harvested basil!  I owe my love of homemade pesto to Heidi Finkelberg, my friend Sarah’s mom, who sent us heavenly vats of it when Sarah and I were living together in Paoli, PA as poor college graduates. That is 32 years of being a pesto aficionado! At a minimum, it is delicious on pasta, pizza, sandwiches, and baked on top of salmon filets. And so, I spend the entire summer gently and patiently watering and tending to my basil, for one purpose, and one purpose only-- to make pesto. And over many years, I have discovered the process of making pesto is ridiculously beneficial for my mental and physical health—my anxiety decreases, and my blood pressure drops.

Standing in front of my raised garden bed, I start by cutting each basil stem right above where new growth has started. This cutting strategy ensures the basil will keep growing (and this is the extent of my gardening knowledge, which could explain a lot). Being outside, breathing clean fresh air, feeling the warm sun on my face, the basil smell wafting about, I begin to forget, for a short moment, about all the stressors in the world (and there is no shortage right now). My mind focuses on the green leaves, and I feel my anxiety start to temporarily wane. With my large stainless-steel colander overflowing with basil clippings, I head inside to the kitchen where the epicurious magic happens.

Meditatively, I go through the entire bounty of basil, one leaf at a time. Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. Pausing every couple of minutes to relocate the squatters—the stray ant, spider, or my favorite, the inchworm, from the basil high-rise they called home. Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. Removing the leaves that are not without blemish and pinching off the picture-perfect ones. Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. With each pinch, praying about each of the worries I harbor inside—school shootings, political corruption, hateful ideologies, and feelings of fear. Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. Wondering if the Buitoni brand spends as much time carefully selecting their basil leaves for their mass-produced pesto! Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. Appreciating that for this one meal I am preparing, I know the origin of all the ingredients that go into it, and the nutritional benefits of each. Good leaf, good leaf, bad leaf, good leaf. With each leaf a different and often unrelated obscure thought.

There is calmness that comes in cleaning the basil leaves in the colander, the water figuratively washing away all the yuck I am feeling. Loving that I get to use my elementary math skills as I calculate how much of each ingredient I will need—garlic, salt, olive oil, pine nuts—based on how much basil I harvested. Two times, three times, four times the recipe. I am grateful for the hum of the food processor as it blends only five ingredients into green deliciousness, the Cuisinart sound waves overriding the panicked dialogue I hear in my head. The gentle pulling at the heart strings I feel in spooning the pesto into jelly jars that were my mother’s, reflecting on how much love she put into preparing food for our family and feeling close to her by simply feeling the crisscross indentations in the glass.

The benediction my pastor Emily D’Andrea gave at the end of worship this past Sunday touched my heart given all the disagreement and violence that is happening in our country. I have heard her offer this prayer many times before, but this Sunday it just landed differently: “Go into the day with courage; hold on to what is good; return to no one evil for evil; strengthen the fainthearted; support the weak; help the suffering; honor all people; love and serve the Lord.” And then in the afternoon after worship, I harvested my last crop of basil, made pesto, and meditated on that commission. I am so frustrated that I cannot wave a magic wand and fix everything in our hurt and broken world. But, I know I can hold on to what is good, return to no one evil for evil, strengthen the fainthearted, support the weak, help the suffering, and honor all people, and that, along with my pesto-infused contentment, does give me the courage to go into this week hope-filled and with great anticipation that we can all do simple honest things in the name of love and human kindness.

Unlike me, my mother would not have been caught dead wearing white pants after Labor Day, but the world feels just a little different now.  We have bigger fish to fry. So, with courage and while wearing white pants year-round, let’s make smart and good choices that lift people up and make our world safer, more hospitable, and kind. I have to believe we can do better.