Basil and Pesto and Observations, Oh My!

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My basil is finishing this year. Or is it just the end of the season for the basil? What’s the difference between a “finishing” and an “ending”? Is there a difference? I’ve been pondering these two words lately. 

Anyway, early this summer, our brand new refrigerator that we purchased when we moved into our new-old house in August of 2020 stopped. Perhaps the refrigerator was finished? In haste, and without much supply from which to choose, we bought a small fridge for the basement to tide us over while we waited for the haggling process that having a warranty created.

I’m actually really pleased we have this additional small fridge with an additional small freezer. It’s extra space for this summer’s abundant supply of pesto.  I have never had as much basil as I have had this year… nor the richly colored leaves and amazingly smooth flavor… or the overflowing amount of pesto. Besides the obvious… soil, water, sunshine, and the Grand Grower, I also attribute this bountiful supply to yearly observations and reflections over many summers. 

For eight summers now, since we have moved to Michigan, while living in different locations around Detroit, I have purchased basil plants from Trader Joe’s to grow, with the primary intention of making pesto. My first experience growing basil happened during the summer of 2014. Because we were renting, I was disinclined toward in-ground plantings; I planted two plants in two pots. One, in a medium sized traditional terra cotta pot and the other in a little bit larger - more robust terra cotta with decorative mosaic tiles on the exterior. I placed them both on the concrete patio where they would receive what I thought they needed most… water and sunshine. When the clouds didn’t produce enough rain, I watered them like all the other outside plants with a shower from the top. The basil also experienced full sun because… well, it’s an herb… don’t all herbs need full sun? That first summer the basil turned yellowish, the leaves became tight, and the plants grew spindly. When I finally got enough growth for a recipe of pesto, it tasted bitter… and I was a bit put off by the whole experience.

I began to reflect on the process and my lack of skill so that I could choose differently the next summer. After hanging my head a bit at the expense of it all, I decided that I needed to read up on basil. I discovered that basil prefers to be watered from the bottom and not on the leaves (except when it rains). I read that it prefers the sun but not too much - only about 6 hours. We eventually moved to a different Detroit suburb, and I again planted basil in pots. I implemented what I learned about the water and sun preferences and the additional summer seasons of basil seemed to like the new environment, for the most part. 

Another year, another move, and we found ourselves in a 5th floor condo in Midtown Detroit with north and west facing balconies in the autumn of 2017. I had also sourced a new yummy pesto recipe that I was desperate to try. When late spring of 2018 arrived, I routinely bought basil again, placed my pots on the north balcony so they wouldn’t be overly exposed to the harsh western sun, and watered the soil not the leaves. By then, I had one large plastic pot and one large terra cotta pot. As the summer progressed, I observed a distinctive difference in the way the two plants grew in the plastic and terra cotta pots. The leaves were soft, voluptuous, and fully green in the plastic pot and tight and light green in the terra cotta pot. When I made a recipe of the pesto, heavy on the leaves from the terra cotta pot, it tasted off and turned brown faster when I mixed it with pasta.

Soon after making that batch of pesto, a most wicked and wild storm came through. Scott and I had gone out on the balcony to watch in the distance the lightning dance through the clouds and the clouds converge for their various dances. All of a sudden the wind and rain came like a V from two directions and we barely made it inside with the chairs, the wine, the water, and ourselves… and I heard behind me, the basil in the terra cotta pot, go down with a thudded crack. I grabbed a nearby dishpan and rescued what I could of the basil plant. No more pots to put it in, I noticed how bound up the roots actually were. There was very little actual soil in the pot to nourish the roots! No wonder it recently had not grown with the same vigor and the leaves had been drawn more tightly and were lighter in color. I reflected on the recent taste of the pesto and determined the bitterness had returned.

This year, I have used new “grow bags” that help to prevent bound up roots. And I have learned a better method of harvesting the leaves… one by one without taking the stems. I found this harvesting experience to be quite therapeutic and relaxing as well. This method saves the plant energy because it doesn’t need to replenish the stems with every batch of pesto I make. The energy goes directly into the rich green leaves.

As the nighttime temperatures slowly tumble, and the daytime sunshine shifts its length of stay, I observe that the energy of the plant has only recently altered its intentional production from leaf to making seeds. This is something the plants used to do much earlier in the summer… I think my observations have made my plants happier and my freezer full.

This is quite the lengthy observation, but what if this pot bound experience is a bit of a metaphor for human growth and the various paradigms in which we function? 

If our roots and the roots of our paradigms are too bound due to smothering or dependance, man made dogmas and doctrines, our experiences too controlled or lacking, do our roots bind up in such a way that our growth is stunted, our vigor and shape depleted, and we develop the flavor of constriction — that is bitterness?

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