Basil.
The soft, pungent summer herb that does not travel well, but is happy growing pretty much anywhere you put it.
Welcome to ingredient, where once a month I take a deep dive into some of my favourite seasonal and store cupboard ingredients. This month I’m focusing on basil, the wonderfully soft and perfumed summer herb whose physical fragility is quite contrary to the bold flavours it manages to impart.
For paid subscribers click here for my recipes for my recipes for Caprese Salad with Basil Dressing, Basil Butter, and my Yellow Courgette Panzanella.
To access these recipes, plus all of the recipes from past newsletters, you can upgrade your subscription here.
Pots of basil have always been in abundance on the kitchen windowsill. It’s delicate, verdant, aromatic leaves carry with them the perfume of summer, instantly transporting you into a sunny Italian terrace where they’re forming the essential garnish to a plate of good mozzarella, and the best, warm sun ripened tomatoes, finished with just the simplest glug of grassy oil and sprinkle of flaky sea salt.
I’ve got two basil plants on my kitchen windowsill at the moment: one that has been there for a few months, standing proud with it’s small, second flush leaves. The second has just arrived, taking the place of one for whom my culinary pursuits finally proved too much for it, still big and floppy with large, boat-like leaves just waiting to be torn over a bowl of pasta.
Unless I have plans to make a big batch of pesto or similar, basil is the only herb I buy in a pot, rather than in bunches. Bruising easily, I find it more practical that way, but I also take a deep amount of pleasure in having something living I can cook with within the confines of my little cottage kitchen: there is always a pane of glass between me and the thyme, barbecue rosemary and parsley plant (that can’t seem to decide if it wishes to be curly or flat leaf) that grow in the kitchen window box.
I’m focusing really on big, floppy and fragrant Italian basil leaves here - the ones we all reach for whenever basil is called for - but other basil varieties also deserve a humble mention.
Greek basil is something I’m a massive fan of ever since about a decade ago I stumbled across a plant in the herb section of Waitrose1. It’s tiny, sharpened teardrop shaped leaves carry the fragrance of basil, but in a slightly more understated way with just a very hint of grassiness. I love that they hold up to the day to day rigours of assembling summer eats much better than their easily bruised cousins, and I find they make a joyful alternative to oregano on sunshine filled Greek dishes, such as a classic Greek salad.
I wanted to finish the frankly joyful pan of Prawn Saganaki - a recipe I wrote one night to lift my spirits after a frankly depressing day of London flat hunting that had me convinced we’d either end up homeless or living in a space with a kitchen so basic I’d be unable to accept certain commissions - in One Pan Pescatarian (find it on pg 163) with it. I trekked all the way to Waitrose for it (living in East Dulwich and refusing to drive in London did make it quite a journey!) after temporarily winning the argument with my publishers project manager that it would put people off the recipe because it was not widely available2, but somehow the pot died in the studio before we had a chance to use it (in plant form I’ve found it is nowhere near as hardy as Italian basil).
The finished dish, garnished with flat leaf parsley is one of my favourite images in the whole book, and it serves as a reminder of what a fleeting joy fresh basil can be, even though it ended up absent from the final imagery.
Thai basil is an alternative basil that is widely available. Not often to my taste due to its pronounced aniseed notes (strange, as I’ve become such a fan of tarragon in recent years), I do accept that often in vibrant, Asian-inspired salads it has its place.
Purple basil is a gardeners best friend, the sultry, inky hued big sister of Italian basil, basil going through its gothic phase. Some varieties have a clove-like flavour, making it more popular as something ornamental, both in a pot and as a garnish on the sort of plate that cares more about Instagram likes than dinner. However, chefs continue to stuff their kitchen gardens with it, so perhaps one day I’ll be proved wrong?
Japanese basil - whilst still, like basil, part of the mint family (just get your head around that for a moment!) - are in fact shisho leaves, often also sold as perilla. I’ve been trying to grow them without success for a while (though apparently the Victorians liked to cultivate it here in Britain as part of a herbaceous border) as they’re not something I ever see fresh, but which, dried, form an essential part of my preferred furikake3 blend.
For this months recipes, I wanted to choose three dishes that really capture basil’s vibrant colour, flavour and perfume.
First, we’ve got the caprese salad I make for my family during the summer, when home grown basil and tomatoes and basil are in abundance, and when my mother has remembered to pick up some good British buffalo mozzarella. Inspired by the basil vinaigrette from The Lemonade Cookbook - a favourite Los Angeles canteen of mine whose barbecue beef brisket; kale, orange and mushroom salad (which I also tried to re-create for One Pan as it is not in the book, that’s on pg 112); and guava lemonade I still have dreams about - I’ve taken to whipping up a simple basil dressing which I think lifts the other ingredients better than plain leaves, and means that you can get away with any extra virgin olive oil you have on hand, rather than reaching for a bottle of something really good.
Next, my basil butter. The basil butter was our favourite among the selection we enjoyed at a stunning dinner for J’s birthday at 360 Dubrovnik, and here I’ve been a bit more rustic with it with a herb-flecked version, capturing basil’s beautiful perfume in unsalted butter studded with flaky sea salt (for much better texture) ready to be liberally spread on toast before being piled with seasonal sliced tomatoes, to be eaten with more radishes from the garden, or to be melted over the top of a barbecue steak.
Finally, my Yellow Courgette Panzanella is a summer salad representative of our straightened times. The courgettes are from the garden, and the bread that makes up the other bulk piece of the salad comes from the bag of homemade loaf ends I keep stashed in the freezer. Basil is the star here as it adds essential perfume: I know I went with the noble trio of mint, coriander and parsley when I was choosing soft herbs for my Herby Bread & Sumac Salad, but what other soft herb would add that warmth and vibrancy of an Italian summer? Basil just does not make sense in cold weather. And yes, I know I’ve got a Ukrainian courgette recipe with tarragon in the dressing bookmarked to make over the weekend, but also in my mind summer courgettes and basil don’t really exist without each other.
For my American readers, Waitrose is one of our supermarket chains, known for high quality produce and the price tags to match. Pre-pandemic I used to tell people who said it was too expensive they were buying the wrong things (their basics range was competitively priced and of a much higher quality than other stores) but I admit now when I go in there for the few products I still always turn to them for (e.g. their basic steaks, cut too thin for eating as steak but ideal for stir fries and fajitas, or their excellent monthly free to card holder magazine) you’re inviting them to empty your wallet!
A blend of sesame seeds and dried seaweed, sometimes with shisho, some sort of fish seasoning and or MSG added.