Sweet, sweet basil.

Basil is one of my favorite herbs. Its smell reminds me of summer, it tastes great raw or cooked, and it's easy to grow. A bit too easy. As Science Guy is finding out, basil is prolific.

I've got some miracle basil growing. No, that's not a breed. I call it miracle basil because it came from nowhere. I started growing a couple of avocado trees two years ago (my intention is that, once global warming has fully kicked in, I'll have the only avocado plantation in the northeast). One of them is now about four feet tall, with a trunk - not a stem - thicker than my thumb. Last summer, it was living on my front porch. One day, I noticed something else growing in the pot, and leaned over to remove it. "Hmmmm...this looks like basil," I thought. Rather than pluck out the entire little plant, I gently rubbed a leaf between my fingers. "Smells like basil, too. Honey!? does this smell like basil to you?" My wife came out of the house and sniffed. "Yeah, it does. Where'd it come from?" "The avocado. No, seriously. Look." So I decided to leave it to see what developed. We've now got about a dozen three-foot-tall basil plants growing happily beside the avocado. My plantation is already expanding. I still have no idea where that basil came from, but it sure does taste good, especially in the middle of winter.

Basil, despite its being green, is a great source of the anti-oxidant beta-carotene, vitamin A, vitamin K, iron, and fiber. In addition to being loaded with flavonoids, its essential oils also have anti-bacterial properties which are effective against Listeria monocytogenes, Staphylococcus aureus, Escherichia coli O:157:H7, Yersinia enterocolitica, and Pseudomonas aeruginosa. Simiply put, basil is good for you.

The best thing about basil, though, is its taste. Slightly sweet, slightly peppery, that overlying licorice/anise flavor, and that wonderfully fresh "green" taste all combine to make basil a terrific addition to a wide variety of foods.

OK, that really doesn't answer your questions, but it does point out that 800 pounds of basil growing in one's garage is not entirely out of the realm of possibility. So, what can you do with all of that green goodness? You've got several options.

First, you can eat it.

Try tossing some into a green salad. Or, slice some fresh tomatoes (which, by the way, are also easy to grow), add some shredded basil leaves, a clove of crushed garlic, a little chopped onion, some freshly ground pepper, a splash of olive oil, and a squeeze of lemon. Serve with some good bread and a glass of wine, and you've got a gorgeous and delicious light lunch or dinner.

Pesto! Traditionally made with a mortar and pestle (hence the name), it can also be made in a food processor. To the bowl of a food processor, add two cups of fresh basil (don't hesitate to use some of the stems here) and two cloves of fresh garlic (or more to taste). Pulse a couple of times to get things going, then slowly add a thin stream of olive oil while pulsing. How much? How much do you like olive oil? More oil makes a smoother, thinner, more unctuous pesto. Less makes a more hearty, more rustic pesto. But it's important to never leave the processor running, or you'll end up with soup. Add about half a cup of lightly toasted pine nuts. When the desired consistency is reached, transfer the pesto to a glass bowl, and gently mix in half a cup (or more) parmigiano-reggiano and either freshly ground black pepper or, for more of a kick, some dried red-pepper flakes. Add some acid (lemon juice, red wine vinegar, orange juice), ecco la pesto! Grandpa would be proud. If you want to keep the pesto, put it into air-tight jars, leaving at least an inch-and-a-half of room at the top. Cover with olive oil, cover tightly and keep in the fridge basically forever. Add a spoonful to tomato sauce, salad dressing, plain pasta, pollenta, grilled chicken, grilled fish (salmon is ideal), burgers, pork, steak...the list goes on and on. It's important to remember that each time you use some you need to put another layer of olive oil on top in order to seal it. The anti-bacterial qualities of the basil, while powerful, do tend to lose their effectiveness over time.

When cooking with basil, add it only at the end of the process, and generally when the food has been taken off of direct heat. Cut the basil into a chiffonade (stack the leaves on top of one another, roll into a cigar-shaped package and, using a VERY sharp knife, slice across the cigar into thin strips; the resulting shreds of basil look like chiffon, which is French for "rags") and let the residual heat of the food wilt the basil.

Second, you can dry it.

When the plants are mature, yank them up, roots and all, and hang them upside down in a warm, dry place. After some time (depending on humidity), they'll be completely dry. Spread some parchment paper (or wax paper) and rub the basil between your hands, allowing the flakes to fall onto the paper. Pour into an airtight jar and store in a cool, dark place. While the flavor won't last indefinitely, even after as long as a year, your dried basil will taste infinitely better than that stuff you've got in a jar in your spice drawer, which has probably been there since the dot.com bubble burst.

Finally, you can freeze it. Pull the leaves from the stems, rinse them in cold water, gently pat them dry, lay them out in plastic zipper bags, squeeze as much air from the bags as possible, and toss them in the freezer. When you need some, open a bag, break some off, refresh in warm water, pat dry, and you're good to go.

And what of the remaining 790 pounds? I'd recommend you get a stall at the local farmers' market, print up a sign that reads "Locally grown, free-range, organic basil," and charge $3.50 a bunch. In today's economy, it's the only market in which you'll get any kind of ROI.

And so it begins.

I've been talking about doing this for a long time, and have finally decided to have a go at it. My own food blog (hmmmm...a flog? I think I've just coined a new term). Anyway, what's the point? What's the purpose of yet another blog about food? Especially another flog (there, I'm already using it) written by an unknown author (blauthor? OK, I'm getting carried away) with absolutely no credentials?

The point is, I do have credentials. No, I'm not "trained" in the traditional sense, and no, I'm not a "foodie" (a term I despise), but I'm the guy people come to when they have a question about food and all things kitchen related. I'm the guy who can save you a bundle on a knife purchase (ask Tom). The one who can tell you where to get lamb liver (ask Marie). I can pair wines with an extremely eclectic five-course dinner (ask Jane) and can direct you and your friends to an inexpensive, authentic Bangladeshi restaurant in Queens (ask Deb). I can lead you to a supermarket that caters to the Latino or Arabic or Subcontinental community (ask Dave) or tell you where to eat based on what subway stop you're getting off at (ask Evan). I'll even ask you to save your poultry carcasses (ask John or Fran) so that I can make soup. Besides, I've been cooking all my life. I started by helping my grandfather mash basil and garlic in his mortar. I helped my grandmother and aunt forming meatballs and frying veal cutlets. One of my fondest childhood memories is the smell of lamb roasting on an Easter Sunday.

So what? How does that separate me from any number of other guys out there? Frankly, it doesnt. What does separate me from them, however, is that I love doing these things. I love baking bread. I love making a turducken as someone's birthday present. I love teaching friends the difference between sharpening and honing their knives. I love talking about the different uses for stainless steel and cast iron; how a skillet, a saucier, and a saute pan all differ. Pretentious? I don't think so. At least I hope not. I think that these things are important.

I said I despise the term "foodie," and it's true. A friend of mine and I were talking about this once, and I realized that the term, like all diminutives, trivializes the individual in question. It makes them seem less powerful, more easily controlled, and not to be taken seriously. There's a scene in The Music Man where Charlie Cowell is trying to seduce Marian Paroo. In that scene, Cowell refers to her as "girlie girl." That's always made me feel a little uneasy. It's obvious that she's the one in power, the one who is calling the shots, and he can't deal with that, so he demeans her. That's how I feel about the term "foodie." What's wrong with "food lover" or even "gourmand?"

OK, so what's this blog ultimately going to be? Well, I'm not sure yet. I'd like to publish recipes. I'd like to discuss technique. I'd like to rant (I'm getting started!). I'd like to talk about people in the food industry whom I respect. I'd like to talk about the way food connects us, the ways in which it helps us understand one another. I'd like to talk about the cultural and social importance of food. And most of all, I'd like for all of you, dear eaters, to get involved. Let's talk. Let's trade. Let's eat together. Let's feed one another.

About the name of this flog: it comes from the musical Oliver! In the first big number of the show, the poor, half-starved urchins burst forth in song and dance over the idea of food. It's quite the number. "Hot Sausage & Mustard" comes from the first chorus:

Food, glorious food, hot sausage and mustard.
While we're in the mood, cold jelly and custard.
Pease pudding and saveloys, "What next?" is the question.
Rich gentlemen have it boys, in-dye-ges-ti-on!
Food, glorious food, we're anxious to try it.
Three banquets a day, our favorite diet.
Just picture a great big steak, fried roasted or stewed.
Oh, food, wonderful food, marvelous food, glorious food!

That pretty much sums up how I feel. Food is wonderful, marvelous, and glorious. It's what nourishes us, sustains us, and what gives us life.

And so with all that said, I invite you to join me here at my virtual table. Come in; pull up a keyboard; have a favorite libation; tuck in; and most of all, get comfortable. I hope you like it here.

Enjoy!