Erin and I made pesto the other day. We made it, then put it away to let it mellow before eating.
Last night, at supper.
Erin and I simultaneously stick our forks into our bowls of linguine. We synchronize twirls. We lift the coils of pasta to our mouths.
Lightning flashes. Angels sing. Fonzie pounds his fist on the jukebox.
There is basil. I can taste that. Fresh, nasal basal.
There is garlic. Oh, he's there.
Roasted walnuts. Subtle. Delicious.
What's that saltiness? That touch of dry, sharp cheesiness? Ah, yes. Parmesan. I remember you.
Olive oil. We couldn't have done it without you. High five.
There's something else. Something.... I can't figure out. I go over the ingredients in my head: basil, garlic, walnuts, Parmesan. That's everything. But I can taste something else.
Then I realize: it's just one of those dishes in which the ingredients create something better than themselves. It's like when you're singing barbershop, and the four voices hit a chord so perfectly the vibrations create a false overtone -- a note everyone can hear, but no one is singing. A fifth voice.
Erin's eyes light up. She's tasting the same thing. Her mind jumps to our garden.
Erin: Next year, we're only growing basil.