For years I thought that anything other than the green Genovese version was sacrilege - until I was introduced to its Sicilian cousin aka Trapanese. Since then, I’ve been swimming with the Trapanesian fishes. The only caveat is that you have to have the right tomatoes. Only the finest and tastiest will do and that definitely doesn’t include cherry - or anything available in the supermarket.
You need that mythical beefsteak tomato some old lady in a french provisioners used to make you a sandwich, one hot afternoon just outside Carcassonne about twenty years ago. As you can tell, it was the highlight of my holiday but I was firmly put in my place a few years later when a friend, who had had a similar experience told me that she had extracted some tomato seeds from said sandwich, smuggled them back to Blighty, germinated and grown them the next year. Now that really must have been a good sandwich.
Anyway, back to the pesto. It’s a simple concoction of peeled and deseeded diced tomatoes (blessed by the lady in black from Carcassonne), blanched almonds, garlic, basil and a little mint. Recipes invariably call for Sicilia or Sardinian pecorino but I reckon it’s best left out of the sauce and grated over the finished dish.
If, like me, you've been suffering over the not so festive period, not only does cooking become a bit of a chore but, even worse, it's hard to summon up much enthusiasm for the fruits of your labour. Unless those fruits include a 'Totnes hug' of a chicken soup. It might have been slightly hijacked by Ashkenazi Jews as 'Jewish penicillin' but I think it's true to say that every culture has its own, much cherished, version. This one started in Persia - so, as with so much Middle Eastern food, probably by the historic Sephardic population.