Red Sauce Casalinga
From the kitchen of Maryann Liguore
First Sauce of Summer
It is midsummer and the herbs are begging to be harvested. They are deep green, a perfect complement to the rich red tomatoes with which they are about to combine in a heavenly red sauce, a staple in every Italian household. It takes some time to coax the basil, parsley and oregano to join you in the kitchen. Lovingly, you plant, water, fertilize and hope that when you are in the mood for the first batch, they will be, too.
This unique sauce Italians create is a family signature of sorts. It’s never really just about cooking. It’s very much about love. As I cut up a combination of hot, mild and sweet Italian sausage to make fast sauce (it takes about half of one day) and toss it into the massive pot where the flavors will meld together, I take instructions from my mother, now gone 10 years: “Make sure the sausage browns well.”
So I wait as it dances in the bottom of the pot until it turns perfectly brown, before I open the top of the pot to let some of the moisture rise. I take care to leave just enough fat from the fragrant sausage to sauté the chopped onions and garlic that join the tender meat at the bottom of the pot.
I take a huge can (this is, after all, “fast” sauce) of diced tomatoes and an equally huge can of tomato puree and pry them open with a lousy can opener. Oh, yes, I remember, my Dad used to do this for my Mom. He was always at the ready to do the “labor” and wash the pots, pans and dishes while she did the fine work. My thumb is aching. Curse that can opener! I’ll get a new one before the next sauce.
My husband, delighted that I have started this project, retrieves the concentrated beef and pork broth that he spent days boiling down to goodness on several of the most unfriendly days of this past winter. It was the perfect way to make our home cozy, while five-feet-high snowdrifts blocked two of the three entryways to the house and the storms never seemed to end. A massive pot of broth simmering on the stove brought life to the house and saved me hours of preparation when the sauce was ready to be made. He ladled it into manageable containers and tucked it away in the freezer to await this very day. This concentrated flavor provides the perfect viscosity to allow the sauce to cling to the pasta just as it should.
I walk out onto the porch. A gentle breeze meets me. I will come out later, while the sauce simmers, to sit in an Adirondack chair, sip a cool glass of water and warm myself in the sun. For now, the herbs are calling. First, I harvest the basil thriving in pots with a host of other herbs planted in late spring. As I wash and re-wash it, I think of my dear friend, Char, who taught me that you really can freeze basil if you put the leaves on a cookie sheet and let them freeze individually, then put them in a freezer bag for Winter. No need for that today. Sauce awaits.
Curly parsley is next. I love the shape of it, the flavor and the texture. You can chop away, but you will always have a little crunch when you bite into it. I love how it refuses to stop being what it is. Half will go into the pot and half will be saved to add to the meatballs. Next, comes the flat leaf Italian parsley; more washing. It is a ritual of three baths in cold water, for the Trinity.
I am on a hunting expedition now. I didn’t plant oregano this year, since last year I ascertained it qualified as a borderline invasive species. It spread to every flower bed, and we battled to prevent it from choking out other plantings. Not to worry. I found plenty in my kitchen herb garden and other beds. Though prolific and invasive, it is the easiest herb to process. Just hold the top of the stem with one hand and pull straight down with the other. Tiny tender green leaves fall into the palm of your hand, ready to complete the flavors. Finally, one aromatic bay leaf is added to remind us of the Alloro (Laurel) trees that grow wild in the mountains of Italy.
As I stir the sauce gently and inhale the heavenly aroma, my husband says, “You stir the sauce just like your Grandma.” As he speaks these words I am once again 4 years old standing on a chrome and vinyl chair, mulpeen (dish towel) tied around my waist, in my Nonna’s kitchen.
“Come questo,” I hear her say, wooden spoon in hand. She reaches from behind and puts her hand on mine, guiding it while I stir the huge pot of fragrant sauce.
“It’s in the wrist,” I reply, “and in my heart.”
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