Barefoot, I sat in the garden among the rows of planted basil and growing vegetables while the sun dried my wet bathing suit. At 8 years old, I was a New York City girl. But my single mom, a teacher at a nearby college, whisked us away from the sticky summers and our un-air-conditioned apartment in the East Village to lush escapes in New England. The reality of how hard she worked to provide these rich summer experiences evaded me as a child, but as an adult, I appreciate it in ways I couldn’t have imagined at the time.
In the early years, we spent every summer on Martha’s Vineyard, in a small cottage in West Tisbury which my mom rented from an older woman. Behind the home was an immense garden that I explored, with permission. Gliding my hands through those massive basil leaves wasn’t an entirely new feeling; I’d had an urban version of it when I accompanied my mother to the Union Square farmers market every Saturday. This was different, though. It was special.
The homeowner gave generous portions of basil to my mom, who turned it into pesto. Raised by a single mother, our home hailed the semi-prepared meal. She prayed at the house of Zabars — the famous deli grocery on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. But out here, hours away from home, I experienced a different version of her. Someone who took great care, and love, in the kitchen.
First, she delicately clipped each leaf with tiny gold shears. The leaves went into an antique gold colander that she ran under the sink, then she placed them all on a damp paper towel and patted it down. On a cutting board, she used an old kitchen utensil to finely chop the basil up. Several vintage cups sat on the counter that she’d picked up from local yard sales. They contained pine nuts, olive oil and parmesan, which she’d grated from a store-bought wedge.
The author as a child with her mother (left), and the house where they gardened in the summertime, on Martha’s Vineyard (right), both circa 1988. (Courtesy Blake Turck)
She’d let me come over and watch her transform the ingredients into pesto for my dinner. One jar would go in the little mint green fridge. The rest she’d freeze. Thirty-six years later, I can still smell it wafting through the air: a strong but not overpowering aroma of freshness.
A quarter-mile down the road from the house was a field filled with black-eyed Susan flowers. My mom and I walked through it, engulfed by the giant stalks, hot August sun beaming down. Life was simple, and happy.
When my mother died in 2010, from a cancer recurrence, parts of my grief surfaced as childhood flashbacks. I visualized my mother all those summers ago, wearing a white bandana tied around her head as she mixed basil in the Oster blender. The way she sprinkled parmesan over the plate, pretending to be a waitress. I relished those memories.
I didn’t think about basil after that — until I fell for a man with a passion for horticulture. He prided himself on his green thumb and fondly referred to teen years working in his town’s nursery. The first time we cultivated our kitchen window garden, I watched in awe of his tenderness. He added the soil and carefully patted it down. Then he planted bushels of flowers: New buds of begonias and geraniums in vivid pinks and reds, their long leaves outstretched, almost tapping the window, as if to prepare for their future greatness.
I was content to leave our new fresh basil in the flimsy, plastic cup it came in, but my boyfriend frowned. He found a clay pot on a shelf of mine I’d forgotten existed and replanted the basil. When he was done, he softly rubbed the leaves in his fingers. The scent hit the air, and I was back in that safe, country garden in 1988.
Our seasonal window garden became a tradition I awaited each year. It signified the start of summer. During our six-year struggle with infertility, miscarriage and failed IVF treatments, growing it was a vital reminder to find joy in routine things. The daily cathartic ritual gave me purpose, and patience.
I visualized my mother all those summers ago, wearing a white bandana tied around her head as she mixed basil in the Oster blender.
When we learned that the transfer with our only genetically healthy embryo didn’t get me pregnant, I went to the kitchen to “micro-garden” in my grief. I found my husband emptying the planter. Shocked, I screamed, “Why are you doing that?”
“We need to start fresh,” he calmly responded, and pointed to the buds hidden by dying leaves.
I nurtured the basil, watering it, trimming old leaves as he had taught me. I was reminded of a time when life was easy. It was a portal to the past, and activated a scent that connected me to the memory of my mom. It also gave me a reason to stay present, and look forward. Growing it all summer was a small act of resilience.
Soon, the corner of our kitchen blossomed again. The process taught me about motivation and what it meant to truly stay hopeful. I watched the flowers and basil grow lush, and as I waited, I was reminded of what was possible. When I finally had a baby, the yearly ritual took on a new, deeper significance. The mindfulness that nurturing my basil plant instilled in me was imperative through infertility. Now, in parenthood, it served as a vital reminder.
I recreated my mom’s recipe from memory and my heart beat rapidly as I presented a spoonful of pesto pasta to my daughter. With air-filled cheeks and tight lips, she promptly shook her head, as my body sank into grief. But when I tried again, she took it, and a slight smile moved across her face.
When she gets old enough, I’ll come to the table to sprinkle her plate with fresh parmesan, honoring my mom’s tradition. Despite her absence, forging this connection between our three generations produced immeasurable joy. I never knew a city girl could get such pleasure from any kind of gardening. But each summer, when my kitchen basil plant flourishes, I feel myself growing too.
