Back in Tennessee, when bride and I made a living temporarily selling produce and preserves (you didn’t need a certified kitchen for preserves then) at the Franklin Farmer’s Market, she made a pesto that was to die for.  She’d ask for (and get) $8 for an 8-oz jar. And it would fly off the table. The more we made, the more it sold; $600 worth some Saturdays.

So one day, through the market came these two Italian male tourists with accents you could hang laundry on, sampling wares and turning up their righteous noses at American produce. We watched them make the rounds. And then they stopped at our booth. Pesto. An Italian staple. Americans, running the booth. Oh sh-t.

One of the pair picked up a club cracker and dipped it in the sample pesto, rolled it around in his mouth, was silent too long, then turned to his friend, fingers joined at the tips as Italians do, moving his hand back and forth, and said to his friend, “Now das a goo pesto!”

They bought eight jars. Ha!