Don't Forget to Stir the Sauce

Sunday Sauce is a huge tradition in our family. I come from a long line of Italian cooks.

Every woman in my family knows how to cook and take pride in their cooking. From chicken cacciatore to lasagna and baked ziti. Eggplant parmesan, fettuccine alfredo, pasta with pesto sauce, and braciole. Desserts like cannoli and biscotti, homemade struffoli and zeppole. Growing up, every Sunday was basically an Italian holiday, and every Italian dish began with the Sunday Sauce.

Early in the day, the big dented, aluminum pot would go on the stove and get filled to

the brim with sauce and meats, herbs and spices. The wooden spoon would sit beside that pot, stirring the sauce all throughout the day so it didn’t burn.  At dinner time the sauce and meat would be separated and set out on the kitchen table with a bowl of pasta and fresh Italian bread.

I have kept that tradition alive. So has my sister. We talk on the phone some Sundays

while we cook our Sunday Sauce. She will tell me what she added to her pot, and I will tell her what I added to mine. Thick cuts of pork chops, sweet Italian sausage, homemade meatballs, all getting stirred in thick bubbling sauce. 

One Sunday, I had my sauce set to simmer. I stood at that stove with the lid to the pot in

one hand, stirring with the wooden spoon in the other. Taking in all the authentic scents of Italy.

That night’s dinner would be amazing. Replacing the lid on the pot and returning the spoon to its rightful spot on the side of the stove, I went about my day. Every Sunday I

choose a project from my chore list. That Sunday I chose to clean out my bedroom closet.

My husband and youngest son would be out most of the day, so I thought it was a good opportunity to tackle a closet project. I began by sorting through our wardrobes and making piles for donation. I organized the shoe racks, lined up the belts and ties, and began to go through some boxes on the top shelf. That’s when I found a box filled with photos.

Old photos of me when I was a child; my sister and I at the beach with our grandmother. Photos of my older children when they were babies. I had taken the box off the shelf and slid it out of the closet. I sat with it on my bedroom floor and pulled out one photo after another. A past Christmas. My daughter is holding a Rugrats doll she had gotten from Santa. She was adorable. She had to be about 4 or 5 years old in that photo.

There was a photo of my two older sons, sitting on Santa’s lap at the mall. They were such

cute little boys.  An Easter egg hunt at my sister’s house with her kids and my kids. I laughed at the ridiculously short hair style I wore back then. My sister and brother-in-law looked so young. The photo was taken at least 25 years ago.

Photo after photo. I sat there and smiled, and hugged some of the old pictures, reminiscing about those days. Thinking about how fast time had gone by. Time had gone by.

THE SAUCE!!!. I hadn’t checked my sauce.

I dropped the photo I was holding onto the floor and ran to the kitchen. I had completely lost track of time. It had to have been at least an hour, maybe two, the last time I stirred my sauce. I lifted the lid on the pot and stirred up the sauce. Thin black sheets of burnt sauce began to rise to the top of the pot.

I burnt the sauce. I panicked. I started picking out the burnt pieces. I got most of them but every time I stirred the sauce, more burnt pieces rose to the top. I tasted the sauce. It was awful. It tasted burnt. There was no fixing that taste. It was ruined. I had ruined the Sunday Sauce. I didn’t even know what to do, so I did the only thing I could think of doing.

I tossed the sauce down the garbage disposal. It was almost 2:30 and there was no time to make a new pot. So, I grabbed my car keys, went to the grocery store and bought the most expensive jar sauce they had. Along with some already pre-made meatballs.

When I got home, I heated the jar sauce up in the big pot, dropped the pre-made meatballs inside and by the time my husband and youngest son were home, dinner was ready. I made their plates and watched and waited.

I was sure they would make a face of disgust, knowing that something was not quite right with my sauce. I didn’t dare tell them the sauce was from a jar. Italians never, under any circumstances, use jar sauce, however, that was an emergency situation.

I held my breath, waiting for a reaction.  My son looked up and said, “mom, this is so delicious!”. Next is my husband, “This is the best sauce you have ever made!” and then added, “whatever you did this time, do it from now on.”

I was in shock. They liked it. How dare they? I looked down at my own plate, twirled the

pasta around my fork and took a bite. I rolled my eyes. It was good. It was really good. I

wouldn’t say it was better than mine, but it was pretty good. 

I have recently decided that I am going to relax more on Sundays. I limit my chores to

one project per month and have decided to sort through that box of photos. I am organizing them and putting them into photo albums. There are Sundays when I find the need to be away from my stove.

Those are the Sundays I get that expensive jar sauce, put it in the crock pot and

let it cook itself.

But on Sundays when all my kids are at the house, and my grandchildren are

visiting, and we have our entire little family together; on those special Sundays, I pull out that dented aluminum pot, my wooden spoon and make the Real Sunday Sauce.