The hydrangeas are blooming. Yesterday I walked over to the garden and spotted two small zucchini nestled just beneath the bright tangerine-colored blossoms, and one row over, three snap peas jauntily hanging from the vines, their delicate tendrils snaking up the metal trellis. Arugula is coming along nicely, as are various lettuces and a hardy species of blue-green kale. At the far edge of the garden is my favorite plant: a small round bush of basil with broad leaves and pretty purple flowers that grow straight up in whirled cylinders. It’s not regular basil (Genovese basil), the sort that you’re used to tasting in pesto and lasagna and piled on top of pizza.
This plant is called holy basil (or often called tulsi). Don’t confuse it with Thai basil, which is a type of basil native to Southeast Asia that has narrow leaves and a spicier, more anise-heavy flavor than regular basil.
Holy basil is in an entirely different category. I tasted it for the first time last summer—I had walked down the block to pick up dinner at the local pizza restaurant, and waved to friends behind the counter: the chef, who sources lots of local produce for the weekly specials, and his wife, a talented pastry chef. She makes the dessert: one selection per night, rotating every few days through recipes like strawberry shortcake and fig frangipane tarts and warm chocolate chip cookies with vanilla ice cream.
She had just gotten back from a stop at a nearby farm stand—Deep Roots Farm—which is run by a tanned, lean woman named Michelle with muscled arms and wildly curly hair and deeply etched smile lines that point to years of belly laughter. Deep Roots is known for specialty produce: knobby lengths of parsnips and turnips, a jumble of bumpy heirloom tomatoes in various hues of orange and red and green, baskets of herbs that wouldn’t look out of a place in an apothecary or Harry Potter movie set.
They sell chickens for roasting and cartons of eggs, beautiful ones that reveal vivid orange yolks when cracked open.
Jess—the pastry chef—had brought back holy basil and she proffered a handful to me as she stood next to the brick pizza oven. It looked innocuous enough, like ordinary basil at quick glance. She gestures for me to take one, doing the same herself. She crushes a piece between her fingers and sniffs it, then pops it in her mouth. I do the same. As I bring it to my nose, I look up at her, puzzled. What is this? She laughs, and tells me the name. It smells sweet, I tell her, trying to place the flavor and the scent. I cast around for the right comparison, until I say triumphantly: pineapple! candy! pineapple candy!
And the flavor is just that, although somehow greener and more vegetal, as if a hint of something sharper (anise?) is hiding just behind the fruit. Just as ordinary basil is a lovely herb for desserts (think lemon basil shortbread or strawberry basil ice cream or basil lime olive oil cake), holy basil is too, but even more so. The tropical fruitiness of it is ideal for sweet recipes; the best way to maximize its flavor is to infuse cream or milk with it. Use the infused cream in an ice cream base, a pastry cream, a custard, or a sauce.
Of course, it’s interesting and good in savory recipes too. Adding savory ingredients to sweet recipes is a commonly used kitchen trick, and doing the opposite works also: add a sweeter herb like this to salads and pastas and stir-fry, to give it some depth.
If you can get your hands on some, do! It’s absolutely worth seeking out for the novelty of the experience—biting into something, expecting a familiar flavor, and finding something so unusual instead. If not, regular basil (or Thai basil also) will work beautifully in this pasta, as it’s all about an overload of herbs: use what you can find that’s fresh.
If you are able to get your hands on some, here are some other ideas: try it in this ice cream, these savory corn muffins, this roasted potato salad, or perhaps even these dark chocolate sweet rolls.
Now, onto the pasta. This is a gorgeous dish—excellent for summer as it showcases fresh herbs in a way most recipes don’t, using cupfuls of fresh herbs as the main ingredient rather than leaning on herbs as an accent or a finishing touch. The pasta is, shall we say, merely a vehicle. I’ve written up the blend I like to use, but you can swap in whatever you have on hand and feel free to play around with the quantities. You essentially want to be throwing in fistfuls of fresh herbs, of any variety. Just be mindful of competing strong flavors—I wouldn’t add a ton of a very strong herb as it can fight with the other ones. I didn’t list tarragon here but it’s a nice addition too.
Herb-Crushed Pasta
Serves 4
1 pound dried pasta
4 tablespoons butter
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 bay leaf, minced (optional)
3 sage leaves, minced
1 tablespoon minced fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon chopped fresh thyme
1 teaspoon chopped fresh marjoram
1 cup chopped fresh Italian parsley
1 cup chopped fresh basil (holy basil or regular basil)
Bring a medium pot of salted water to a boil. Add the pasta and cook until al dente, then drain and set aside.
Heat the olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Add the garlic, minced bay leaf, minced sage, and minced rosemary. Cook, stirring occasionally, for a few minutes or until fragrant.
Mix all the remaining chopped herbs together in a small bowl and lightly crush them (the bottom of a glass or jar works well for this). Set half aside. Add the other half of the herbs to the pan and season generously with salt and pepper. Cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Remove from the heat.
Add the butter and herb mixture to the pasta and toss to coat. If the butter doesn't melt, return to the stovetop to heat briefly to melt the butter.
Add the remaining fresh herbs to the pasta and toss to mix evenly.
Serve as is, or top with a heavy dusting of freshly grated Parmesan.