How to Ferment Basil + Recipe
Fermented herbs, marinated basil, shiso, and oregano flowers, July in in the garden and July in snapshots
No matter the size of a garden—from a few herb pots on an apartment porch, to a planter box in a yard, to a fenced-in plot of ground deemed the garden—there is a rhythm. Planning, planting, tending, harvesting, wondering why you planted so much, still harvesting, dreaming of the first killing frost, and finally ending. In this progression, there is the initial excitement that can begin when the earth has not warmed enough to plant, seed catalog lovers know what I am talking about. It might be you, a cup of tea, and a catalog in January, dreaming of what summer could bring. That excitement for some begins later when the first warmish sun starts to awaken the soil and crocuses. Or, maybe there is no plan and later, when spring is full on and plant starts are at the grocery store, at the market, in front of home improvement or variety stores—the energy of plant-me calling like Sirens from small plastic pots.
This past week, our garden moved from tending to harvesting. This year, the doldrums of tending seemed to go on forever; isn’t that how it is with doldrums? You feel like what you are waiting for will never come. In June, we had a spike in temperature, and all the young plants went into heat stress. They stopped growing and looked limp, as if they were unable to hydrate. Many had just begun to flower and begin to set fruit. As they worked to survive, they turned off flowering. Things cooled, and the plants recovered and began to flower again—so here we are eating and preserving the fruits of their labor. And as timing and life would have it, now that the simple tending period is over, I am leaving to visit grand babies for 10 days. Sorry Christopher…
Our garden is down the hill and across the road from our home. We have to choose to go to the garden, as it is not a place in plain sight that we pass on our way to anything else. Over the heat wave, I started going to it three times a day, once in the early morning, in the middle of day to move shade cloth around, and finally after sunset. Now I am back to my early morning and evening tending. In the morning, it is more of a patrol round. Did the doe find a new way to get in, again? (Survey the damage to plants 🫣 and walk the fence line in hopes of finding the breach—patch.) Gopher damage? (Stomp on the tunnels near the plants…) Turkey damage? (Grumble.) Are the heavy pepper plants still upright? (Stake.) Did the soaker hoses on the dawn timer work? (We have hard water, and sometimes they plug partway through the season.)
Last night it occurred to me that the evening tour has become a meditation. I need the time more than the garden needs anything from me. The garden is situated within a fenced space of approximately 2 acres. Most of that is not the garden; for example, some of it is a cider apple orchard. Because there is a lot of room and a number of trees, the garden beds are spread out in different areas. I visit each one in turn. I take my time and enjoy the spaces and the plants. The harsh light and heat of the day is over, not building. Whether I have checked all the to-dos on my list or not, the pressure is no longer there, in other words, my head has cooled down too. Some nights I don’t do much of anything but talk to the plants, encouraging them and such. Last night I clipped the Thai basil way back, in hopes that when I come home there would be a fresh flush of leaves. Keep reading for what I did with the clippings.
Basil
My first “garden plant” was a pitiful potted basil plant. I was in college. I brought it home, watered it, and waited for it to grow. I imagined a large, bushy houseplant that would last for years, as I picked leaves to add to all the gourmet meals I would cook once I moved beyond my daily quesadilla diet. Admittedly, I knew nothing about herbs, specifically annuals versus perennials, and more precisely, that unless picked, the annual basil would do what nature intended for it—flower and seed. Our goals were clearly misaligned. Fast forward a few years: we moved into our first house with a yard. The first “big girl” thing I did was buy books on herb gardens, complete with designs, to transform the front lawn into herbs for everything—dying wool, health tonics, and flavor. I imagined mixing my own medicines, spinning and dying my own wool and weaving the family’s garments. (None of that happened, at least not in those ways.)
As these early aspirations played themselves out the constant was food. My connection with real food became stronger, as did my relationship with flavor, because tasty morsels are one of life's joys. These foodstuffs I grew needed preservation.
A few years into fermenting all the vegetables from the garden, I was still making and freezing pesto with our basil. Exasperated by the high cost of pine nuts and Parmesan cheese in the quantities that I made when we still had four children at home, I decided to ferment the basil. I fermented whole leaves and a “pesto” starter that I could use in anything and add pine nuts, olive oil, and parmesan to as needed. Having always been disappointed in the flavor of dried basil and other delicate leaf herbs, my mind was blown. When herbs are dried, the volatile flavor compounds don’t hold on; they dissipate easily. Volatile compounds are light-weight, organic compounds that give herbs and other plants their intoxicating aromas. With fermentation, you lock in those compounds. In other words, fermentation in most cases retains compounds that may be lost in other forms of preservation. Using fermented basil leaves in your meals is almost like using fresh basil, because in a sense, you are keeping the food alive.
When you ferment fresh herbs, whether culinary or medicinal, you amplify the magic they have to offer. Let me explain. Beyond preserving the flavor, you reap the benefits of consuming fresh herbs, and in a sense, keeping the herb alive through the live probiotic microbes that are now on board.
