I went on a bit of a healthy kick over the weekend – after making four batches of cupcakes in three days the week prior, I definitely needed it (not that I gorge on the cupcakes I make, but one does have to taste test, you know?). And in a fit of heat-induced amnesia, I accidentally bought a new package of kumatos every.single.time I went to Trader Joe’s last week (four packages, for the record). Luckily, when you’re craving healthy food, a glut of tomatoes isn’t a bad thing to have around.
As much as I love basil vodka, it’s not something I’d ever want to take shots of, or even drink on the rocks. It’s too strong, and (perhaps more importantly) I am far past the age where I can do shots in any sort of dignified manner.
If, however, you wish to take shots of it, I certainly don’t begrudge you that. In fact, I salute you. But if you’re like me and you believe that a rainy Saturday afternoon is the perfect time to sip on a fancy, pretty cocktail while you bake/do laundry/train for a marathon, etc., then this is probably the drink for you. Also, call me, because I think we should probably be friends.
The musky, slightly sweet basil is perfect with tart Meyer lemon juice, and a hint of simple syrup rounds it out. This would be great at a dinner party as a pre-dinner drink, or for any cocktail hour. Or, as originally created, a “just because” drink, because you had a long week and you earned it, dammit.
Basil vodka was my very first at-home liquor infusion (although I posted about my second first). You’ll know everything you need to about the results by the simple fact that I haven’t stopped since. I infuse everything now – vodka, oil, vinegar, shampoo…it’s become a bit of an obsession, all because this first infusion turned out so stinking good. This one will always be my favorite, because it’s so different. You can get vodka in almost any flavor these days, from marshmallow to pomegranate, but most of the off-the-shelf flavors lean toward the guaranteed-to-be-popular sweet or fruity types. The musky, earthy scent and flavor of basil isn’t for everyone, but for me it was a welcome change (especially after trying a cloyingly sweet whipped cream flavor a week earlier…ick!).
I made the first batch of this over the holidays, while in a DIY gifting frenzy. Tragically, I gave every last bit away, but after recalling how much I’d enjoyed my taste tests (a completely necessary and non-optional step in vodka infusing, of course), I mixed up another batch to welcome spring and the beginning of basil season. I still plan to give most of it away, but have set aside a small bottle to keep this time – lesson learned!
Basil vodka mixes beautifully with citrus or berry flavors – I’ll post a recipe later this week for the cocktail I enjoyed while on a baking bender this past rainy Saturday – but it’s also pretty much custom-made for a Bloody Mary. Whatever you do with it, be sure to give some away, because a) it’s dangerous to keep too much lying around, and b) it’s fun to let your friends think you’re some sort of mad scientist.
Okay, I normally don’t use words like “rustic” to describe recipes. In my kitchen, it’s a running joke that if something turns out edible but supremely unattractive, it gets classified as “rustic.” The banana bread that overrose its pan and spilled over the sides? Rustic. Mushroom gravy that tasted divine but looked like something you’d scrape off your shoe? Rustic. See the pattern?
I may have to retire that joke in favor of the true definition of rustic – charmingly simple, unsophisticated. When I first tasted this pesto, my eyes opened wide, and I think I let out an audible gasp. I could taste every component in each bite – the basil, the garlic, the pine nuts, and the parmesan. It was as if each ingredient took a quick turn in a starring role before melding together into the most perfect blend of flavors I can imagine. It’s the simplest of dishes – five ingredients and no equipment required but a sharp knife, a cutting board, and some elbow grease (RUSTIC!). It’s that simplicity that makes this pesto special. Hand-chopping the ingredients a little bit at a time is what allows each flavor to both shine on its own and meld with the others, because it’s not ground into mushy paste in a blender (blenders aren’t rustic). The best part, aside from the taste, is the feeling of accomplishment after finishing all of that chopping (or maybe that’s just me. Frankly, it doesn’t take much to make me feel accomplished). Accomplishment, for the record, is also rustic.
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