Pistachio Pesto with Roasted Garlic

Give me songs
to sing
and emerald dreams
to dream
and I'll give you love
unfolding.
~ Jim Morrison

Sure thing after an introduction like that, a la Jim Morrison, I have very little to say.
I could probably tell you about the scent of basil, a universal sign of summer; I could unroll the thread of my thoughts and explain how it is that it's tied to pistachios; I could go on about roasted garlic' newfound kindness, an irrefutable proof of the innate goodness of the universe; or else I could write half a treaty on the color green and the vegan pesto.
Or maybe I could accept Jim's invitation and leave to wander around, speaking of emerald dreams, the meaning of life before and after pesto, of black and white movies, the surprise endings or the songs at the end of spring.
Instead, don't panic, there will be none of that. Today I (almost) prefer to be silent and instead entrust my post to Jim's words, my pictures and the green color of this pesto, wishing you a weekend a little rock and a little roll.
I, for my part, will go out for a walk down to Costa Rica, to regain my green and the energy I've lost along the way.
May pesto be with you until I get back. If I come back.
Besos.




Pistachio Pesto
with Roasted Garlic
for 2 jars

pistachios 75 gr
cashews 25 gr
garlic 6 cloves
lemon 1/2
basil 1 big bunch
extra virgin olive oil 70 gr
salt, pepper to taste

First roast the garlic cloves: put them in a pan, unpeeled, toss with a tablespoon of olive oil, salt and pepper and bake at 360 for about 40 minutes, until they are softened. (Now, I admit that the above process seems too much for six miserable cloves of garlic, so I suggest two alternatives: either you double, what am I saying?, triple the amount of pesto, or, as in my case, you roast a huge amount of garlic cloves, because I swear they're delicious, spread on bread they're a real pleasure, and if you don't make them in abundance you'll regret it, be warned...).
Put in a blender (or in a mortar, for traditionalists) pistachios, cashews and garlic cloves, roasted and peeled. Blend until you get a rather fine grain. Add abundant basil leaves, lemon juice, salt and pepper and blend again. At the end add the oil a little at a time until you get a creamy pesto and fairly fluid. Place in the jars, cover with more oil and store in the fridge.
To those who ask me what about Parmesan cheese?, I'd say that Parmesan in pesto is just a modern fantasy; you can do very well without it, and in any case, to avoid any doubt, I added if you notice a handful of cashews, which will give your pesto just the right touch of parmesanosity creaminess.
Yes you can do it, too.
w.v.<3

Harissa Homemade

Give me a bit of your time, a look at the horizon and a memory. Every day and forever.
I'll give you a smile, a little light on my shadows and something red. Every day and forever.
~ Anonymous

I wish I was able to describe colors to a blind man, to speak of white, silver and blue, or green, black and yellow, to make them alive even without light, and to stick them forever under the skin and inside the eyes; I wish I was able to grasp their secret, to understand their mystery and enigma, and then give the answer to those who don't know it.
And then I wonder, what color is it, the color red? Warm and strong like a sudden jolt that goes through your stomach; it's the color of sin, a forbidden apple, the tousled hair of an almost respectable girl. It burns, at times, like a sick passion, a cross and some blood spilled on the crazy sidewalks. It's exuberant as crimson and soft as velvet, positive as a new beginning and a horizon full of hope. It's the color of Mondays, safe, straightforward and a bit ambitious.
But red are also the bricks and the cracks of the houses up the hills, within the faded frame of my memory; summer tomatoes under the sun, a bed of poppies that you wanna dive in, the smell of the earth, and the dirty hands of simplicity.
Red to me is the only wine, full of fruit, and intoxicating with love and serenity. Red is the truth, that feeling that screams and suffocates, but that sometimes, unexpected, brings life back.
Red and shiny are the shoes that I've always wanted to wear, a touch of makeup that made you fall in love one day, and in the end, is that flower that we no longer had the courage to share.
I wish I was able, able to explain all the red that I carry inside and that you don't know. I wish.




Harissa Homemade*
for 2 small jars

medium size red bell peppers 3
cumin seeds 1/2 teaspoon
caraway seeds 1/2 teaspoon
coriander seeds 1/2 teaspoon
small red onions 2
garlic 6 cloves
fresh red hot chilies 4
extra virgin olive oil 1 tablespoon
tomato paste 1 full tablespoon
lemon juice 4 tablespoons
salt 1/2 teaspoon

*This one comes always from here, Plenty, a book so full of red, yellow and green, so packed with vegan recipes... but not too much. Come on, tell me you already like it.

Harissa is a spicy hot sauce, typical of some North African countries (Tunisia, Algeria, Libya, Morocco), it's used to accompany grilled vegetables, meat (noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!), or rice and couscous dishes. But in my house it's also eaten with bread by the spoon...
Peel the bell peppers: roast them over a gas flame, close them for a few minutes in a paper bag, then remove skin and seeds. Cut into pieces and set aside.
Toast cumin, caraway and coriander seeds in a hot pan, then grind them up in a food processor until you get a powder.
Coarsely chop garlic and onion, and sauté them for a few minutes in a pan with a tablespoon of olive oil. Add the chilies, cleaned, seeded and cut into pieces. Cook over medium heat for about 8-10 minutes until they take on an amber color. Let cool off slightly, and then blend the mixture with roasted peppers, spices powder, tomato paste, lemon juice and salt, until you get a smooth paste with no lumps.
It keeps in the fridge for a few weeks and it's used with love.
w.v.<3

Veg Ragù (Meatless Meat Sauce)

Many months and years went by (gulp!), and dozens of posts, recipes, jams, focaccias, canning, pizzas and cakes since that day when I made the most classic of meat sauce for the last time; and also since I committed this other sin for the purpose of the blog, about which I now refuse to talk.
I know that this improper, heretical new entry, and vegan (!), more than one person will refuse to call it ragù, but who am I to blame? Obscurantist controversies don't really suit me, and in my resume, I confess, I too can boast a past as culinary fundamentalist, which, however, used to give me quite a few migraines in this stars-and-stripes land dominated by the horrors (or strokes of genius) of fusion cuisine. So today, of the restrictive philosophy of the days when I used to believe only in buffalo mozzarella, San Daniele prosciutto and pachino tomatoes, I decided to keep only the (semi-)fundamentalist ethics of pizza, whereby the combination pineapple&ham (otherwise known as Hawaiian pizza) to this day gives me intestine hives.
I digress, as always, but this is basically one of the subtle pleasures of a self-managed blog...
Ragù, we were saying. These days I've learned that the word comes from the French ragoûter, that is to say "whet your appetite". So, technically, even what I'm now submitting to your sacrosanct criticism, is a ragù with all the trimmings. Because it really whets, with its expanded fragrance and the ruby red color that will stick to your ladle.
And I call it ragù because it must be made with no rush on Sunday morning, or in the peace of a whole available afternoon; and because it contains within itself the same thick and reassuring idea of when you were six and used to come back home after school, knowing that you'd to find the table already set, and ten to one there'd be pasta with tomato sauce for lunch.
Be patient if this time the meat ran away; and who cares if I can't settle the culinary fundamentalists; it'll mean that I won't invite them for lunch, but then, I don't think they'd like to sit on the floor anyways. Or, to make up for it, I'll call it poor boy ragù, or better yet poor girl ragù, to show off my English and encourage a little compassion.
But take a piece of bread and dip it in while it's hot, and then tell me if by any chance it wasn't worth the effort.



Veg Ragù*
for 6 people

onion 1
carrots 2
celery 1 stalk
green olives 50 gr
raisins 120 gr
salt-packed capers 25 gr
double concentrated tomato paste 2 tubes
red wine 1/2 glass
fresh parsley and basil 1 bunch each
olive oil, salt, pepper, red chili pepper, water as needed

*I grabbed the recipe from the famous folder Forum Cucina Italiana, but I hadn't saved the name of the author, I apologize. If anyone knows who he/she is, do tell. Thank you for your understanding.

Finely chop the onion and sauté for a few minutes in a little olive oil. Add carrots and celery cut into small cubes and cook for about 10 minutes.
Meanwhile chop (you can do it also with a food processor, or rather, better with a food processor) olives, raisins, and capers rinsed from their salt. Add them to the vegetable mixture along with plenty of minced parsley and basil, red chili pepper to taste, salt (a little) and pepper. Stir and cook for a few minutes, then add the tomato paste diluted in red wine and a little bit of water. Cook the sauce to medium-low flame for about two hours, stirring occasionally and adding some water if it boils down too much.
Use it as usual, in the classic sandwich with meat sauce, still hot, or as a sauce for the pasta shape that suits you best: rigatoni, penne, mezzi rigatoni, mezze penne, smooth or ribbed, maccheroni, spaghetti, shells or fettuccine. Long live pasta, long live meat sauce, the veg one even more!
w.v.<3

Cashew Basil Pesto

Not only pine nuts. Not always spaghetti.
Long live the Pesto.

Cashew Basil Pesto
for one medium jar

basil a whole lot
(but hey, how can you say? a huge, huge amount of fragrant basil, I'd say a big fat bunch)
cashews 30 gr
garlic 1-2 cloves
grated parmigiano cheese 20 gr
olive oil about 125 ml
lemon juice few drops
salt, pepper as needed

As always, do as you like with pesto: mortar, elbow grease and summa cum laude; or else mixer, power on and whatever. In the end, I haven't told you anything, but most of all, tell me who will notice.
So, in summary, throw everything into the container of choice and pound with joy.

Russian Kale Pesto

And what the hell is this? Kale. Russian. Russian Kale.
When I was living back in Italy, this thing here, with curly leaves and purple stems, sweet taste and non-cabbagy smell, well... I had never seen that thing there. But let's be clear, if by chance any of you knows that it does exist over there, and perhaps has also an aunt who grows it every year in the garden in the back of the house, well, what are you waiting for? Step up and save me from embarrassment.
I actually discovered it only after a decade since I moved here in the U.S., but then, I've always known to be a leader. It seems that Russian kale was introduced in America in the nineteenth century by Russian traders, from which it takes its name. If the same traders had forgotten one plant along the Adriatic coast as well, we do not know.
As for me, when few days ago I decided to use it for the first time, it was love at first sight. Russian Kale, now and forever. It is my new obsession, along with pomelo, sweet lemons and iPad2 Medjool dates. I promise that from now on I will never let it go.


Russian Kale Pesto
for one small jar

Russian kale about 100-130 gr. (about 3 cups)
garlic 2 cloves
cashews about 40 gr. (1/4 cup)
lemon juice 3 teaspoons
grated zest of 1/2 a lemon
extra virgin olive oil about 250 ml. (a little over 1/3 cup)
grated parmigiano cheese about 30 gr. (1/3 cup)
salt, pepper to taste

Toast the cashews in the oven for about ten minutes. Peel the garlic cloves and cut them in half. Wash the kale leaves, remove the hard ends and cut it in pieces. Gather all ingredients in the mortar mixer and blend like crazy.

Fava Bean Pesto

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.

[I hate and I love. Why do I do it, perchance you might ask?
I don't know, but I feel it happening to me and I'm burning up.]
(C.V. Catullus, Carmen LXXXV)

Dedicated to the fava bean.

Dear fava, I love you because:
1) You're transient and ephemeral. Available only few weeks a year, you're a treasured fruit, a true delicacy. When you come, it's a feast;
2) Protected even by two precious pods, you're intriguing and mysterious. With reason, you're hiding from the outside world, giving yourself only to those who take you really seriously;
3) You're of such a nice pastel green that it instantly makes one happy;
4) You're a spontaneous and wholesome lady, with all the taste of the old world;
5) You're really good.

Dear fava, I hate you because:
1) You're confusing and erratic. One never knows when you're about to arrive, and one can't even look for a recipe that you've already disappeared;
2) Protected even by two hairy skins, you're arrogant and deceitful. You're snobbish with no reason, giving me - from two miserable bags - only one pathetic jar of pesto;
3) You're of such a greenish color that it's a little scary;
4) You're just a poor fava, and you make me do all this work?
5) Reluctantly, I have to admit you're always right: you're really good.

I could have never imagined I'd dedicate the wonderful poem above to a green creature. This is called a foodblogger's delirium. Don't pay attention to it, it'll go away soon, just like the very brief fava season.

Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
(C.V. Catullus, Carmen LXXXV)


Fava Bean Pesto

fava beans, net about 150 gr.
garlic 1 small clove
grated pecorino cheese 2-3 tablespoons
lemon juice 1 tablespoon
olive oil 3 tablespoons
fresh mint 6-8 leaves
salt, pepper to taste

NOTE: To get 150 gr net of shelled fava beans, I think I started from approximately one and a half kilo of fresh ones (now you understand my delirium?).

Shell fava beans, blanch them briefly in boiling water, then rinse them under cool water and remove their inner skin. At this point, if you love fava beans, take all the ingredients and crush them with love in a mortar. If, instead, you're more on the hate side, take all the ingredients and throw them in a blender for two minutes, just like I did.
Spread the pesto on top of toasted bread slices, or use it for pasta.

Dear fava, I'll see you again next year. Me, I've already done enough.