the whole plate.

“urban/suburban.”

roasted baby potatoes with tarragon-dijon pesto; big salad of kale, heirlooms, zucchini, cannellini beans, mustard vinaigrette.

I realized recently that this week marks my seven year anniversary of officially moving to the city.  While those years have been interrupted by college summers back in suburbia, semesters abroad, and my post-collegiate year in Central Europe, New York has been my answer to “Where are you from?” for several years now.

I knew from the age of nine that I wanted to pick up the old family roots in the city.  There is little about my suburban upbringing that I’ve ever found enticing: the necessity of cars, the uniform clothing, the lack of art, the mediocre chain restaurants.  I need to be in a place where I can wear a flowered skirt with a studded belt and rain boots without attracting stares of confusion.  And so, I live in New York.

Last weekend, however, brought me to suburbia.  Sitting over breakfast at my mom’s Connecticut kitchen table, the surface hidden under countless Bon Appetits as we discussed cooking plans for Rosh Hashanah, Mom and I got to talking about tarragon.

You see, she had some in her refrigerator, sharing space in a small bag with dill, thyme, and basil.  She had picked it from her neighbor’s garden – a neighbor who told her, “Judy, feel free to walk over and take herbs for yourself whenever you’d like.”

That concept is so sweet and suburban.

Here in my urban apartment, my knowledge of my neighbors is minimal.  The morning yapping – wailing, really – of the dog next door has clued me in to the existence of their pet.  The 2 AM laughter seeping through my bedroom vent has given me an unfortunate awareness of the two girls upstairs.  But I don’t know their names, and I can’t identify their faces.

Filling my grocery basket with weekly produce last Sunday, I felt inspired to purchase some tarragon.  My ounce of the herb had no neighborly tale behind it.  It was not home-grown, not even from a farmers market.  It came in a package, sold to me by one of the city’s many Asian grocers in a twenty-four hour supermarket.

I’d guess my mom’s local tarragon tasted better than mine.  But that is a concession I make in my urban life: I trade fresh air and gardening space for public parks and produce that must be purchased, not home-grown. [Of course, we have countless farmers markets to fill that void.]

Still, I got my herb, transformed by food processor and oil into my favorite summer condiment.  Someday, in the apartment that I will own, I will have a terrace, and it will house a few potted plants.  Basil, oregano, perhaps one stalk of tomatoes.  And tarragon, I think, for a little something interesting.

♦♦♦

tarragon-dijon pesto

• ~1 ounce fresh tarragon
• 1/4 c flax oil [a similarly nutty oil, like walnut or sunflower would substitute nicely]
• 1/4 c walnuts
• juice of half a lemon
• 1 clove garlic, minced
• 1/4 t sea salt
• pepper to taste

Blend all ingredients in a food processor.

Related posts:

1. dinner 12.10: pao.
2. spring pea and fennel soup, and eating real food.
3. dinner 12.10: the melting pot.