On Pesto

Whenever I smell basil, I think of my grandmother.

Before my first birthday, my mom’s parents moved out to a house just outside Victoria, BC. It was on a large piece of land with huge gardens, many guest rooms, and a pool in the back yard. Between the pool, the myriad of stuffed animals left over from my aunts’ and uncle’s childhood days, the expansive yard, and the hallway perfect for hop, skipping and jumping down, it was a grandchild’s dream. Living a full day’s drive away, we weren’t able to go out there that often, but we usually made the trip at least a couple times a year. It was my happy place, where my mom’s large family would congregate to eat dinners on the patio, play chinese checkers and hide-and-seek in the garden, and watch Oklahoma.

Starting from the age of eight or nine, I would spend time alone at my grandparents’ house. I remember flying as an “unaccompanied minor”, and feeling the thrill of getting on the plane alone for the first time. My Grandpa and I would do crossword puzzles and go on outings to the museum or the beach. We often had a special dinner at an italian restaurant, where I tried, and loved, gnocci for the first time. I felt privileged to be able to have that alone time with my grandparents. It was a treasured part of every summer.

Whether out on the coast alone or with my family, my Nannie’s cooking was always a huge part of our visit. Using the amazing bounty from her garden, she would make amazing meals for groups large and small. While many of my friends described their grandparents’ cooking as simple and straightforward, my Nannie used flavours from around the world in her cooking, with wonderful results. She sometimes made her own pasta, and always, ALWAYS made her own bread. Often we ate from uniquely shape loaves that were skinny at the bottom and fat at the top, the result of her baking her bread in flower pots. “Flower pot bread” was a standard in our family; only when I think about it now do I realize how unique that really was.

And pesto. My Nannie made the best pesto. Among all of the amazing food that she made for us over the years, her pesto was something that I always looked forward to, and she would have it for us most every time we went out there. At the end of one of my solo trips out there, my Grandpa took me to the airport, only to find that my flight was delayed (this was pre-online check-in days, of course). Since they lived quite close to the Victoria airport, we decided to go back to their house and wait there for a while. When we returned, I was overjoyed to walk in to a familiar smell. My Nannie’s pesto. I ate a huge plate of macaroni with that delicious green sauce, and said a secret thank you to the airplane gods for making things run a little late.

With my grandparents’, and especially my Nannie’s, health declining, they had to sell that beautiful house a few years ago. As a child, I always figured that the house would be in the family forever, because that was our place, the place where we went to create happy memories and share food, laughs, and love. As I got older, though I knew it was unrealistic, I secretly held on to the wish that maybe, somehow, the house would stay as it always was, frozen in time, as a keeper of our most cherished memories. I would take my children there, and they would play in the garden and the pool as I had. But one day we were sifting through their belongings, trying to help them get rid of what they no longer needed, and then a few months later, we were walking through the garden for the last time. And that was it. It didn’t seem possible, but the house was no longer ours.

I don’t remember the last time I ate my Nannie’s pesto, or where I was. I do know that every time I smell basil I think of my Nannie, and the way that she nourished my family and me with her cooking and her love on our trips out to the coast. I’ve had pesto innumerable times at countless locations, but it is forever associated with her. Every time I make pesto, I think of my Nannie. And I am thankful for the memories that come flooding back.

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