My fingers fumbled around the different basil plants in the garden as I subconsciously decided which one would fit best for the buttercream I was making. Not being the biggest supporter of cinnamon basil, I skipped it completely and grabbed the lemon and sweet for it to soak in the milk overnight. For this being my first time making buttercream, and therefore soaking dairy with herbs, there was this feeling of success that came much sooner than the actual creation of buttercream itself, or rather something unexpected.
Later that evening, I mindlessly simmered the basil leaves, milk, and half-and-half gently. I let the mixture cool for a couple hours, popped it in the refrigerator and plopped back down on the couch. Unbeknownst to me, there was a sweet surprise brewing, waiting for me.
The next day I took the milk mixture out of the fridge to bring to room temperature before mixing it with the other ingredients. I uncapped the mason jar and was immediately intoxicated by the smell. I could not stop smelling this milk, I wanted to drink it, dunk my face in it, take a milk bath with it.. you get the point. But there was this more subtle feeling, I was reminded of India, and of my father, and when I smelled the milk I could feel it in my bones. It took me back to a place I have only visited once, strange for something to feel so familiar yet so foreign at the same time.
Being as excited as I was with this new discovery, I immediately phoned my father. I felt foolish, almost embarrassed to share what seemed so trivial. Despite my feelings, he partook in my excitement, reminisced with a few stories and taught me that basil is actually a native plant to India. Sometimes, the smallest things are the most profound. Eating is so embedded into our daily lives as habit, that not only do we forget to stop and smell the roses spices, but we dismiss the feeling it brings altogether.