My family treats its traditional red sauce like others practice religion - we all believe in it, that it's sacred and essential for life, but each of us celebrates it by making it our own way.
I grew up eating it at least once a week, oblivious to its greatness in a world full of watery, bland, sugar-laden impostors. I realized how fortunate I was while studying abroad in Ireland, living on a tight budget in an apartment with a small kitchen and limited cooking tools. There was so much to see and do in Galway that my friends and I didn't take the time to cook often, so while scrambling to come up with dinner one night I picked up a jar of Prego, threw a can of tuna in it and boiled half a box of penne.
Assembled on the plate, it looked decent enough. The meal had cost only a couple of bucks, and there was enough leftover to cover the next day's lunch. But it didn't smell the same. I took my first bite and suddenly felt very alone, in a world far from home.
This, I thought, can NEVER happen again.
Later that night, I called home. I needed to hear familiar voices, but I didn't mention the meal. I'd learned my lesson, and news of the incident would not go over well.
A few years later, while visiting my girlfriend (now wife), Shefali, I learned another lesson in sauce tradition. She was in the middle of a clinical rotation in Boston, and I was there for several days between Christmas and New Year's. The day I arrived, I opened her fridge and saw a half-eaten jar of Ragu Old World Style. It was as if I was back in Ireland, cold, alone and confused again. I quickly scanned the room to see what else had deceived me. Was I really planning to marry a girl who eats sauce from a plastic jar?
I took a few deep breaths, regrouped and found some much needed perspective. Shefali's from India, not Italy. At the time, she didn't know puttanesca from arrabiata. Pasta in India was like most Indian food here in the US - a shell of what it's supposed to be
What I didn't see in her fridge were jars of curry and tikka masala. She knew good food, but I hadn't shown her good sauce.
The next day she had to work, so I canceled my plans to explore Cambridge and instead walked to the nearest grocery store, carried several pounds of canned tomatoes back to her house and over the course of the afternoon filled her roommate's largest pot with my family's sauce. When she got home, I opened her freezer and showed her the stacked plastic bins as well as the meats she would cook and add to each. I also asked her to please never buy sauce again.
Memorable as my family's recipe may be, I've had a hard time pinpointing the exact recipe. It appears every cook in the family follows a slightly different recipe. For example, my dad includes green peppers, but Aunt Mary uses only onions. Grandma Jean slow cooks it all day, often in a Crock Pot, while others let it simmer for only an hour. I add a lot of crushed red pepper for spice.
Regardless of the disagreement and countless variations, several important universals exist:
- garlic and onions are essential
- cans of peeled, whole tomatoes are best, but other varieties (crushed, diced) work as well.
- add tomato paste in addition to the canned tomatoes
- season with oregano
- adjust the seasonings (salt, pepper, oregano, parsley, etc.) after the sauce simmers for an hour
- let the sauce simmer for at least one hour (the longer the better).
Here is the recipe in its entirety, as my father taught it to me:
1. In a large pot, simmer a few cloves of garlic (diced) in olive oil.
2. Add 1 big can (28 oz) of tomatoes, 2 cans of tomato paste, and 4 cans of water (2 cans water for every can of tomato paste)
3. Add 1/2 of 1 large onion, chopped
4. Add 4 cloves of garlic, cut into large pieces
5. Add 1 bell pepper, diced
6. Cover the top of the sauce with dried oregano. Stir in the oregano and add 2 bay leaves.
7. Let the sauce simmer for at least one hour.
8 After the sauce has simmered, season with salt, pepper, garlic, oregano, etc. to taste.
I grew up eating it at least once a week, oblivious to its greatness in a world full of watery, bland, sugar-laden impostors. I realized how fortunate I was while studying abroad in Ireland, living on a tight budget in an apartment with a small kitchen and limited cooking tools. There was so much to see and do in Galway that my friends and I didn't take the time to cook often, so while scrambling to come up with dinner one night I picked up a jar of Prego, threw a can of tuna in it and boiled half a box of penne.
Assembled on the plate, it looked decent enough. The meal had cost only a couple of bucks, and there was enough leftover to cover the next day's lunch. But it didn't smell the same. I took my first bite and suddenly felt very alone, in a world far from home.
This, I thought, can NEVER happen again.
Later that night, I called home. I needed to hear familiar voices, but I didn't mention the meal. I'd learned my lesson, and news of the incident would not go over well.
A few years later, while visiting my girlfriend (now wife), Shefali, I learned another lesson in sauce tradition. She was in the middle of a clinical rotation in Boston, and I was there for several days between Christmas and New Year's. The day I arrived, I opened her fridge and saw a half-eaten jar of Ragu Old World Style. It was as if I was back in Ireland, cold, alone and confused again. I quickly scanned the room to see what else had deceived me. Was I really planning to marry a girl who eats sauce from a plastic jar?
I took a few deep breaths, regrouped and found some much needed perspective. Shefali's from India, not Italy. At the time, she didn't know puttanesca from arrabiata. Pasta in India was like most Indian food here in the US - a shell of what it's supposed to be
What I didn't see in her fridge were jars of curry and tikka masala. She knew good food, but I hadn't shown her good sauce.
The next day she had to work, so I canceled my plans to explore Cambridge and instead walked to the nearest grocery store, carried several pounds of canned tomatoes back to her house and over the course of the afternoon filled her roommate's largest pot with my family's sauce. When she got home, I opened her freezer and showed her the stacked plastic bins as well as the meats she would cook and add to each. I also asked her to please never buy sauce again.
Memorable as my family's recipe may be, I've had a hard time pinpointing the exact recipe. It appears every cook in the family follows a slightly different recipe. For example, my dad includes green peppers, but Aunt Mary uses only onions. Grandma Jean slow cooks it all day, often in a Crock Pot, while others let it simmer for only an hour. I add a lot of crushed red pepper for spice.
Regardless of the disagreement and countless variations, several important universals exist:
- garlic and onions are essential
- cans of peeled, whole tomatoes are best, but other varieties (crushed, diced) work as well.
- add tomato paste in addition to the canned tomatoes
- season with oregano
- adjust the seasonings (salt, pepper, oregano, parsley, etc.) after the sauce simmers for an hour
- let the sauce simmer for at least one hour (the longer the better).
Here is the recipe in its entirety, as my father taught it to me:
1. In a large pot, simmer a few cloves of garlic (diced) in olive oil.
2. Add 1 big can (28 oz) of tomatoes, 2 cans of tomato paste, and 4 cans of water (2 cans water for every can of tomato paste)
3. Add 1/2 of 1 large onion, chopped
4. Add 4 cloves of garlic, cut into large pieces
5. Add 1 bell pepper, diced
6. Cover the top of the sauce with dried oregano. Stir in the oregano and add 2 bay leaves.
7. Let the sauce simmer for at least one hour.
8 After the sauce has simmered, season with salt, pepper, garlic, oregano, etc. to taste.
Longing to get a good basic sauce recipe - so here goes with this one...
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