Panic at the Pesto

You are awakened by/with/to a panic attack. Sleep is a dangerous affair and you will never be sure as to how you will wake up. There are a few coping mechanisms available to you. As you are not a male writer/artist of note who has cultivated a life of destructive behaviour upheld by various institutions and the culture, you choose the path of simplicity and get up. You must keep moving so as not to let the panic consume you. You briefly sip at your tea so you may fool the world. You are going to be immortal as you can’t eat, drink, or sleep but you will do a fine impression of being functional. The ego of a God will always try to fool the people. Your eyes try to latch onto something in the room so that you aren’t pulled away by the hurricane within you. Doors. You would like to escape through those.The floor where things have been dropped. As long as your feet are there, you can thank gravity for not leaving you. People zipping back and forth in front of you. You know they exist but are not in focus, you must connect to those familiar shapes. You speak but what do you even say? You remember your rituals. You provide a recitation of nonsense and promises to do this and that. There is no one to take dictation so you will likely remember little of what you have said. You ready children for the day and send them off to school.

You could escape to the eye where all is still but the static crackly noise crashing against the wall will not leave your ears. This storm must wear itself out and you must find something to ground you to this world. You know it is there.

Your hands. They drop things easily when you are like this.They have no awareness of the space around them and are decorated with scratches and bruises from being caught on things, or smacking against surfaces high and low.They will always carry a few scars from accidents that require a funny story. Give your hands something to do. They need to hold onto something. At least one other sense needs to be engaged if you are to be rescued. You still can’t eat. It would be a waste. You won’t taste anything, and your stomach will want it out of your body as soon as possible because you are on the run from existence and there isn’t any time for comfort or anything else that might slow you down. It is just you and your raw nerves so you are going to make a sauce to match.

Your eyes spot the basil. Branding firms and articles on colour psychology love to talk about how green is uplifting and positive. Just read this little worksheet on mindfulness. Breathe and think of the green in nature and this panic attack won’t exist. The worksheet from a well meaning person filling in boxes has never been up close to a panic attack. The worksheet is like a Northern European person in the middle ages illustrating a picture of an elephant despite never having seen one; handing it to a person who has been chased by one and not understanding why the person begins to laugh until they set fire to things in a rage. Hold that basil and breathe in its unique scent of green and a sweetly anise-like heart. For this will take you on a path to a better place. You are not an Ancient Egyptian or Greek carrying it with you to paradise but you will eventually arrive at a place where your nerve-endings aren’t in a state of terror.

We are going to begin with garlic and salt. These are two important ingredients for humans to exist well. Hold them in each hand and know that there will be love and care in your immediate future. Queen Elizabeth II was known for her dislike of garlic, and the British royal family at large are known for avoiding it. One wonders if half of their well known dysfunctional dynamic could be healed with a few loaves of garlic bread, and some ceviche while acknowledging that their set of traditions doesn’t leave much room for love, growth, and honest communication.

When I was a little girl, my father worked in a pizza parlor. Sometimes after nursery school I would have to sit and wait there until my mom was finished with work and she could take me home. I would sit on a very high stool and was given a pencil and a piece of paper to draw on. I would draw things and watch my father twirl the dough, spread the sauce, and add toppings. I loved the smoothness and speed in which everything could be done. I remember very well how it was winter, and the windows would be steamed up with condensation. People would come in to pick up their pizzas and they always looked so happy. How can you not be happy in a pizza parlor? But the most important part of the memory was the scent of garlic in the air. In that pizza parlor, the scent of garlic filled every space, everyone was happy, and it was warm and cozy. I decided then, that heaven would feel like a pizza parlor on a warm winter’s evening.

This garlic and salt need to be mashed together. They will become a grainy paste. This can be accomplished via a blender, food processor, or a mortar and pestle. Your hands will hold lids in place, or smash down the ingredients and they will have purpose. You shall keep your eyes on this task. Pause and breathe in the garlic once again. When you crush that garlic an enzyme converts one organosulfur compound (alliin) into another (allicin) and you are given that unique perfume. This disruption is much healthier than drinking a bunch of rum and spearing a shark, and you aren’t even done with your task yet, so you may end up with an equally impressive story about defeating great monsters.

Add the pine nuts and continue to crush them so that this paste becomes almost creamy. Pine nuts are a truly ancient food. Even before humans figured out how to irrigate fields, and bake bread, there were pine nuts to nibble upon. Don’t let anyone tell you that we aren’t a snacking species. We are meant to graze. You are making a sauce that is the story of humanity, your brain may not believe you, but you are. Your brain is likely having a difficult time trying to make sense of the truth in the midst of the panic attack but those pine nuts will slowly clear away the fog. If you can’t find any pine nuts or just don’t care for them, there are other options available to you. Some use walnuts, others use pecans. In Sicily the tradition is to use almonds. (their approach is to also add some tomatoes that are very sweet. When you are in a more collected place emotionally you should try it.) Pesto has a history that goes back very far and sideways. It is thought that it may have come from a Roman dish called, Moretum, which is a cheese based dip/spread that one puts on bread. Having made it, and eaten it, I can say it would be familiar to people in Italy, or fine folk in Wisconsin having people over for a backyard barbecue. Herbs/greens are mashed down with nuts, a fresh soft cheese is combined with it along with salt, pepper, and olive oil. Another cousin/ancestor of Pesto is a concentrated garlic sauce called Agliata, which is a peasant dish that combines many things that linger around the kitchen that need using up. (bread crumbs, vinegar, olive oil and all of the garlic.) You can consider those another day. Today as you feel as if your heart may leap out of your chest, and you honestly wish to escape your own skin. We will not ask you to go far or achieve much. We will stay within the firm borders of Liguria where the people are held between mountains and sea. To grow up between mountains and sea is to feel as if something will hold you, or take you away. This region of Italy is small, and crowded. It is like a tall narrow house full of relatives and random cats. And you will always be fed.

You gather all of the basil, and you smell it once again. You look over the leaves and pick off any that are turning brown. You brush them with a slightly damp cloth. Again you take in the vibrant but solidly calm green, because it lessens the haunting in your soul that wishes to suffocate you for reasons you can’t fathom. Basil is a shade of green that is at home with the colors of the Liturgical calendar. When there isn’t the high drama of red represented in the blood passion, nor the mourning and longing of lilac and black, there is green -the colour of Ordinary time. The liturgical colour scheme was codified by Pope Innocent III. He was a thoroughly ruthless man who expanded the crusades, held supremacy over many kingdoms. He would approve of projects and requests if he had a dream about it. He also put into place cruel laws that forced Jewish people to wear yellow/red hats/badges so no Christian would accidentally have sex with them. A man in a decadent hat should know that hats can be removed for a good time. But why green? No one can answer that. There is nothing ordinary about the green. Especially the green of basil if you are the Isabella of John Keats’ narrative poem. “Isabella, or the Pot of Basil”. It is gothic, and the humour is morbid. Keats borrowed the story from Boccaccio’s Decameron. (Keats even mentions this very fact within the poem.) All of the best people borrowed from Boccaccio, including Chaucer, but then Boccaccio borrowed his stories from everywhere. A story is much like a recipe that is retold by various people a million different ways. In Keats’ poem we learn the tale of Isabella who falls for a man who her kinsmen don’t feel is fit to marry her. They lure her lover Lorenzo out and murder him and bury his body. They tell her that he is off on a trip and won’t be back for a while. She is in a state of constant mourning. Then the ghost of Lorenzo appears before Isabella and tells her what has happened and where she might find his body. Her nurse comes along to witness as Isabella digs up his body. She removes his head, and in her wild love she takes Lorenzo’s head home, puts his head in a pot, and plants basil on top. The basil thrives as her constant tears waters it. Everyone in her family doesn’t understand what has happened to Isabella. She barely eats/sleeps/leaves the house. All she does is keep herself wrapped around this potted basil that carries a secret. Her brothers wait until she leaves the pot, and they dig up the basil and are horrified to discover Lorenzo’s head. They leave Lorenzo’s head somewhere secret and then run away for good. Isabella is lost without the last piece of Lorenzo, and as she is unable to find him, she withers away and dies. Basil at heart is not a tender plant. Basil is ardor that inspires demented fervor. It is made up of multiple cultivars with so many traits. It is its own opera. Let’s have a frenzied experience with the basil. You are going to pulverize it with the garlic/pine nut cream. You may not be able to shriek as your fight or flight reflex is dueling, but you can pour all of your anguish into breaking down each leaf. This is where your longing, ire, and upset with the world can be present. Even if you are using a blender, you let the grinding scream of the machine speak for you. Then there is silence. A shock of flavour is needed to help more of your senses realize that you are here in this room.

Pecorino Romano (sheep’s cheese of Rome.) It is one of the oldest cheeses in Italy. It has a kind of kinship with Cheshire cheese in England. Both have a long record on this earth. Both were eventually put into a kind of industrialized production to meet demand. Pecorino Romano was originally created in the outskirts of Rome before much of production was moved to Sardinia. These are workhorse cheeses that remain when everything else falls apart. Both were used to feed armies/navies as it travels well and provides enough nutrients and proteins to keep legionaries going in difficult circumstances. (And it is easier to digest. This will talk your stomach into holding something.) Today you are a warrior facing an enemy that doesn’t play fair and engages in a kind of warfare that would send most people to The Hague. Pecorino will push you to move a little bit further into the day. This cheese is hard, sharp, and unafraid to care for you. It is world-weary and will call you “Young Buck” or “Baby”. Have a few tastes of the crumbles before you grate it over the mashed basil/garlic/pine nut mixture. You will stand very still, close your eyes. This cheese won’t feel good but it will feel right. For some this might be a moment of discovery about a desire regarding Dominance/submission. For others it will bring the world back into focus. It will transform your pain into something a little bit beautiful. You are feeling something that isn’t misery or disquiet. You whisper, “I am the assassin.” You may use other hard cheeses. The 19th century recipe that defined pesto as we know it, was printed not long after Italy was unified and offered a number of different combinations of ingredients. The author (Giovanni Battista Ratto) must have understood that what one might find available in the North, might not be available in the South. He even suggested using a Dutch cheese in the pesto. If you have some gouda about, grate it in and pretend you have opinions about Victor Emmanuel II being allied with the Prussians during the Franco-Prussian war. Ratto’s definitive recipe tells us another thing. People had to make do in the moment. As you slowly quell the chaos in your head that wants to trick you into thinking that death is nigh, you are gripping existence, and working with every skill you have. Some pieces of yourself are out of reach but they will return. There may not be basil but there might be parsley. Think of that sentence when things feel impossible.

We have reached the final ingredient and the most eternal one: olive oil. There is great comfort in the existence of olive oil. Humans really nailed that one early on. It is like that five in one shampoo that will do everything for you. Only olive oil is doing twenty things for the human race. If there was an infomercial for olive oil, you would be there all night watching as the host floored you with every demonstration of its capabilities.

“From cradle to grave we will anoint you with this wonder product! Do you have a religion? We can meet your needs. You can find our products in the Old Testament. This is the product that all of the finest Greek athletes use in all important competitions. They wouldn’t dream of anything using anything else. Are you looking for a fine skincare line that won’t hurt your pocketbook? Then you can wash it off in soap MADE from our olive oil. That is not all, we have this citizen named Aristotle who wrote in to say it works in a contraceptive. What will they think of next?”

There are some arguments about the origins of the domestication of olive trees. Was it Persia? Was it Egypt? We can let such worries go, for we are in the present. We are trying to reduce our unchained anxiety, and we embrace that olive trees hold many secrets and stories. There is an olive tree on the isle of Crete that is supposedly 4,000 years old. It would be fit for Odysseus and Penelope. Two figures who know much about fighting impossible creatures and outwitting selfish beings. We are grateful to the people who figured out the next steps. Initially olive oil’s main purpose was for lighting lamps. Now it will light up your life in this pesto. We are going to pour in olive oil, and blend everything. And once you have finished making your pesto you can spoon/scrape it into a jar and pour some more olive oil on top to protect it.

You take a deep breath and know you are safe.You are here, just like that ancient tree in Crete. It has seen many storms and great strife and it remains. May you find deep roots that hold you steady in difficult times. Let this ancient sauce feed you. Keep it in the fridge and add a spoonful to a soup. (A Genoese tradition with minestrone) Combine a little with butter and spread it on toast at midnight. Make just enough pasta for you and someone you love. The first person to feed me pesto and pasta was a family friend named Lana. Sometimes she was a chef. (She had a number of jobs like most women did where I grew up.) She cooked a lot. She was an artist’s wife, lived a lot, built a house, and was often surrounded by children and a dog. She would make the most interesting pronouncements about life or art while feeding you. I can look back and see how parts of her life were complicated in the only way life can sometimes be for adults, but in observing her, she always seemed to be floating with the current in a happy way. I was not like that but I wanted to understand how she did it. I remember her handing me the white ceramic bowl full of linguine covered in a green sauce and being floored by the scent, and flavour. I ate a lot of pasta growing up. It was cheap, and could feed many children. I ate it a lot of different ways. (My Mother made a fantastic clam spaghetti dish that I was fond of. Simple and had a chew and a bite that made the meal feel bigger.) But Pesto was a new feeling. It was comforting and restorative. As if I was being told, “The sun will rise tomorrow even if there are clouds hiding it now.” These are words that could only come from ancient ingredients. Pesto reminds you that authenticity is a tricky subject to engage in when it comes to making many things in the kitchen. It is one of many versions of the same tale and there is one for everyone and every mood. It allows forgiveness of imperfect ideas and emotions. You may feel maladjusted but you have avoided the cliche of stabbing a spouse, or stealing from their diaries. Well done you. Instead of turning to annihilation, or collapse when trepidation fills you, find the horizon. This is one version of yourself, on one particular day. The murky flood will recede.

Look, the tempest has passed. You can put things away later. You should rest. There will be pesto waiting for you, and there will be so much to enjoy.