Pesto is cancelled

James Frederiksen with a public service announcement.

I have been having a recurring nightmare.

I’m back at school, and after a particularly laborious day of pretending to understand what a locus is, I make the train trip home. When I finally finish my commute, and drag myself through the front door, my only comfort is that my meals are still taken care of for me.

That sense of security instantly evaporates when my nostrils are filled with the scent of basil leaves and pine nuts. My fate sealed, I meekly stammer out , “What’s for dinner?”

 That’s when I am exposed to the three words that no child should ever hear their parents say:

“We’re having pesto.”

I am well aware that my stance towards pesto pasta places me firmly in the minority, and otherwise reasonable adults become positively apoplectic at the mere suggestion that pesto is, in fact, a bit shit. I will admit that I have not tried every pesto, and the possibility exists that there is a pesto out there that will convert me to the cult of oily-basil noodles. Unfortunately, I am yet to meet that mythical viridescent pasta dish.

Believe me, I have tried to get into pesto. My cooking skills are akin to that of a caveman, so a recipe that involves crushing leaves and nuts together with a mortar and pestle is actually within the limits of my culinary expertise. I wish that I had as little respect for my tastebuds as you all seem to, because it would make my life so much easier if one batch of uninspiring green purée could feed me for a whole week. Truly, I envy you.

Perhaps pesto’s one redeeming quality is that it is an inoculation against disappointment. Finishing a bowl of pesto is a cheap and easy way to desensitise yourself to the crippling unfulfillment that will inevitably consume you towards the end of a Media and Communications degree. Beyond that, eating pesto is like vaccinating yourself with controlled doses of mediocrity, slowly building your immunity up over time until you can vote for the Liberal Party and not feel guilty about it. But that’s just one way of putting it.

I have long pondered why an obviously crap dish is so beloved by so many, and it was only recently that the truth occurred to me. There must be something about the concoction of pine nuts and parmesan that, when consumed in large quantities, shuts down the area of the brain responsible for our sense of taste. Think of it like staring into the sun for too long: as the sun damages your vision and blinds you, it becomes easier to stare at the Sun. I cannot yet say whether the effects are reversible, but I am eternally thankful that I have not yet been ensnared by the tendrils of Northern Italian cuisine.

The responsibility falls on me to tell you that pesto is cancelled. For too long we have allowed this Mediterranean menace to dictate our palatal preferences, and I worry that it might be too late to reverse the process. I used to live in fear of the Pitbull of pasta sauces, but with enough action we should be able to prevent pesto from succeeding in its insidious plot of going truly worldwide.

So, when you’re next feeling ravenous for a bit of ravioli, take your hands off the herbs and back away from the food processor. Turn your attention instead towards a hearty spag bol, or as it prefers to be known, ‘Your favourite pasta’s favourite pasta’.