Rosie Kellett’s Pesto Pasta Sonata

In May of last year, still reeling from a particularly painful break up, I took myself on a solo holiday to Sicily. The week I spent in a small fishing village on the Trapani coast was among the most powerful and profoundly loving experiences of my life. Sure, I cried on the beach and had one too many boulevardiers. But mostly, I revelled in the solitude and autonomy that allowed me to really feel my feelings, one spoon at a time. Gelato for breakfast? Sure! Pasta mid-morning? Absolutely! I happened to be in a region where pistachio was everywhere—in the cornetti, granita, cannoli, gelato, but most excitingly, in the pesto served over the regional spiral pasta shape, busiate. I ate bowl after bowl. Of course, I had to develop a recipe for it as soon as I returned home. Pistachios hold their own enchantments: prized aphrodisiacs since antiquity, revered by Assyrians and ancient Greeks, and so coveted that the Queen of Sheba is said to have monopolised them. Basil too: worn as royal perfume and named for the Greek word for ‘king’, it was considered a fragrant aphrodisiac. Italian maidens gifted basil sprigs to their lovers to seal their affection, while in the Middle East, its scent was said to weave a spell of romance in a room. Whenever I have a night to myself, I nourish myself with a bowl of this pesto—the ultimate act of self love. I associate that time, and this recipe, with a tectonic shift in my ability to love myself. When I make it now, I remember the woman I was, looking for love everywhere but the most obvious place, and finding it finally in myself. This recipe makes extra pesto, because if you’re going to make it, you might as well make a lot. It’s perfect for sandwiches, pasta, pizza, or salads. Make it vegan by skipping the parmesan and adding morenuts, though it won’t be quite as rich.

METHOD (serves 6)

In a blender or food processor, combine the basil, olive oil, garlic, salt, and pepper until smooth. Transfer the mixture into a large mixing bowl and fold in the ground pistachios and grated parmesan. Making the pesto this way—rather than blending everything together—prevents it from becoming too smooth or soup-like. I like a bit of texture to my pesto. In a dry frying pan, toast the flaked almonds until golden brown. Cook the pasta al dente by testing it for doneness about 2–3 minutes shy of the packet instructions. Drain the pasta and toss it with half of the pesto, stirring thoroughly to coat. Serve a generous plate of pasta, topped with an extra dollop of pesto, a fresh grating of parmesan, and a scattering of toasted almonds