Teaching the Pesto

During my mindfulness facilitator training at UCLA, our instructor, Diana Winston, was preparing the group to teach meditation. That’s why we were there – to learn to teach. I don’t know about the rest of the gang of fifty, but I was terrified. I had never taught anything, at least not with the intention of being a teacher of something. 

“Break up into groups of three. You’ll teach for five minutes, have five minutes for self-reflection, then five minutes of feedback from your classmates,” Diana instructed. Nervous eyes darted around the plain conference room, equipped with a podium, pleather chairs and giant urns of weak coffee and hot water for tea. Dan, Linda and I met eyes and nodded silently, forming a group. My palms were sweaty. Then, just as we were about to commence, Diana added, “One more thing. You’re NOT teaching meditation. Come up with something else you know how to do well. A passion, a routine, anything you feel capable of teaching. Don’t overthink it. GO!” 

This additional information was like shock and awe. What could I possibly teach? I’d nurtured and helped to promote any number of my assistants when I was an editor, but this felt different. With just seconds to prepare, I chose making pesto. Pesto, the Italian ‘paste’ made from basil, garlic, parmesan, pine nuts and olive oil, which I make every week for my kid and myself. Pesto, that would have me weighing fifty pounds more if I ate as much as I’d like. Pesto, my ‘go to’ recipe, as if I never make anything else.

I taught making pesto to my fellow classmates. I told a funny story about Theo, I talked about using no recipe. I described using my hand as a measuring cup, as demonstrated to me by observing my Italian sister-in-law. 

As I taught making the pesto, I could see the joy, the amusement and the attention on Dan and Linda’s faces. After reflection and feedback, they both asked for the recipe. In the giving of it, I realized that I had forgotten to mention the salt and the pepper during my session. It didn’t seem to matter. I taught with passion, enthusiasm, humor and experience. I hadn’t done it perfectly. 

Authenticity leaves room for imperfection. There’s vulnerability in not being perfect, in showing passion and commitment, allowing space for being human – this was the point of the lesson. It changed my teaching, and it changed my life. 

Recently, I taught my twelve-year-old son Theo to make the pesto.  I’ll still prepare it for him whenever he requests it, but I also wanted to foster some confidence and responsibility. He can make this simple dish for his friends in college, in high school, and perhaps even in the seventh grade, instead of ordering a pizza.

There’s a great freedom in authenticity, in being one’s true self without the worry of flawlessness. Since teaching the pesto, I feel more comfortable speaking to groups and in public. I have more confidence doing most anything that formerly caused fear in a perfectionist like myself. I may not do it perfectly, but I do it my own way.

Rough recipe - added by popular demand:

Ingredients:

1 package Trader Joe’s organic fresh basil 

1 clove raw garlic

About 1/2 - 3/4 cup grated Parmesan Reggiano

About 1/2-2/3 cup organic pine nuts

Salt and pepper to taste

Olive oil – about 2/3-3/4 cup

Remove stems from basil leaves - wash, drain leaves.  Throw everything except the olive oil into a Cuisinart.  Begin running food processor, drizzling the olive oil into the mixture through the open top of the lid. Stop after about 30 seconds and scrape ingredients down into the bowl. Close lid and continue to combine, adding olive oil until desired consistency. I do this part by ear; I can hear when it humbly transforms into the perfect paste. Add to your favorite pasta, on toast, pizza, anything and everything tastes good with this on top.  

I hope I didn’t forget anything.