Welcome to the Dark Side.
When I graduated from high school, your uncle Stefan wrote me a letter. He told me that he had wanted to be a teacher, but he’d gotten the job at BMW instead, and that was okay. And then he gave me a bunch of life advice, stuff he thought I should know – mostly that sometimes, metaphorically speaking, taking the job at BMW instead of becoming a teacher works out better all around. It was a good letter, and I wish I still had it. Maybe Stefan had something to say about life that I don’t.
It was not so terribly long ago that you were just a little slip of a thing, your arms around my neck, saying: “I don’t want to stop hugging you, Auntie Allycen.” And then, six weeks ago, we were two adults in a dressing room discussing the intricacies of hemlines. Both of us changed a lot in that stretch of time; we were children together for a short while, and now we’ll be adults together for a long time. You are sensible and compassionate and a total, utter joy to be around – I think you’ll be good at this whole adult thing.
I was thinking about you yesterday, while I was at work and you were walking across a stage to get your diploma, and I wondered what I could pass on to you, what little wisdom I could tuck into your palm to carry with you. The problem is that a lot of the really useful stuff is what you have to learn on your lonesome: how to stand up for yourself, how to avoid settling for less, when to turn someone down gently and when to tell them off. The rest of it is just handy, like “wear sunscreen.” (For the record, the last time I had a screwdriver in my hand and I thought ‘righty tighty, lefty loosey’ I silently thanked the guy who taught me that, even if he was a jerk in all other respects.)
But there is one thing I can talk about with some confidence, something you might like to hear about: pesto sauce.
I could wax poetic about pesto, because it’s the perfect food. It tastes good, it’s healthy for you, and it never fails to impress – even if you just open up a jar of the stuff, premade. You can make it from scratch, using the best ingredients (freshly picked basil, Ligurian olive oil, an expensive deli Parmesan), pounded by hand in a mortar and pestle, and it will be totally, 100%, worth every minute you put into it. And you know? I recommend that at some point, you make sure that happens in your life. Good food is one of the most primary pleasures that life has to offer, and the primary pleasures are the hardest to top.
But the important life lesson that I can pass on here is: sometimes you take the BMW job. Sometimes you use premade pesto. You do this because sometimes your time is worth more to you that your palate, or because your blender is broken or basil is out of season or you worked all day and you’re tired. Maybe you don’t like cooking – or maybe you do, but the people who are going to be eating your cooking are not going to appreciate it fully. And you should never waste Ligurian olive oil (metaphorical or otherwise) on people who don’t appreciate it, because that stuff is expensive and so is your dignity. In short, know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.
So go out! Live well! Wear sunscreen! Buy a very sharp knife for your kitchen, because if you love to cook a sharp knife will serve you well, and if you hate to cook a sharp knife will make you hate cooking less. Don’t microwave aluminum foil. Make pesto from scratch when nothing but the best pesto will do, and don’t feel any shame in opening a jar when something else is more important. Congratulations on your graduation.
With much love from your favorite aunt,
Allycen
Turtle’s Pesto
*2 cups fresh basil leaves, washed
*2/3 cup shredded parmesan
*1/3 cup pine nuts
*2/3 cup olive oil
*3 cloves garlic
*juice from ½ lime and ½ lemon
*salt and pepper, to taste
Throw everything in a blender and process until smooth and saucy. Serve over stuff.
No comments:
Post a Comment