Ancestry Magazine

Pasta sauce is nearly sacred in my family. The thought of life without it would be unbearable. While other fami lies might have inherited municipal bonds, money, or real estate, our inheritance was the original recipe for pasta sauce. This is, of course, a great source of pride to us all.

My father was a big man and the small kitchen was his domain. He entered it with the confidence and determination of a heavyweight contender. Reaching for the big pot and placing it strategically on his favorite burner was the first step. He would then clear his throat several times and without further delay, in his deep baritone voice, he would start singing Italian songs. This was our signal that he had formally entered the culinary arena and was not to be disturbed. He would pour virgin olive oil in the bottom of the pot, adding freshly crushed garlic, fresh bay leaves, and mushrooms for starters. My father had no patience with amateurs. Anyone who did not make it his way was not just misinformed, but barbaric.

My Aunt Jennie had other ideas. She believed no pasta sauce was complete without a little parsley and onions thrown in for good measure. Aunt Edie on the other hand, just loved a good secret. She waited for the right moment to tell me, then looked over her shoulder, lowered her voice and raised her eyebrows as she whispered, “A teaspoon of sugar will take away bitterness from any tomato.” I’ve always been good at recognizing classified data whenever I hear it, so I signaled her back by raising my eyebrows, too.

One of my cousins must have survived some unrecorded pasta sauce famine in his youth. His terror at the possibility of reliving the experience has delighted the neighbors. He is so afraid of not having enough to eat that he drags out a huge pot and fills it to the brim. This abundance has provided countless feasts of rigatoni, ground pork, and fennels swimming in savory pasta sauce. What we cannot eat we give to the neighbors. And everybody knows pasta sauce always tastes even better the next day.

The spoon for stirring pasta sauce must have been selected from a number of entries by some official spoon committee. I am amazed that no matter which member of the family is cooking the pasta or where in the country they live, the wooden spoon with its long handle is the only spoon used to stir the pot.

Stirring the sauce is an actual art form not well-known by the outside world. We are taught to stir the sauce clockwise, never counter-clockwise. Each apprentice has unsuccessfully attempted to challenge this ritual, but who can question generations of pasta sauce makers? The fear of stirring counter-clockwise agonizes us all. What could conceivably happen anyway? After all, is it possible to unravel pasta sauce?

Everyone in the family knows pasta sauce is a serious business. Even while empty, the large pasta pot is looked upon with great esteem as a kind of symbol of pride and heritage. The more worn the pot appears, the more dignity it brings its owner, like a well-used gun in the Old West.

While pasta can be eaten any day of the week, like all nearly sacred things, Sunday was the big day. The children even called it Pasta Sunday. There was the big pot filled to the brim, and Italian hard bread rolls on the table surrounded by family and friends to visit and to share the meal. Grandpa would sit at the head of the table, raise his glass up high, and wish us all good health.

“Salute!” he would say.

We would do the same, raising our glasses toward him and echo, “Salute.”

Pasta sauce can always be found at our family gatherings. And regardless of the right way to cook it, when the aroma of that wonderful sauce permeates the air, you can close your eyes and transcend through time to memories of a lifetime of Sundays, with lively conversations, lots of laughter, and deepening bonds.

I have long wondered about the source of the original recipe. How far back do we have to go to find this ancestor who provided us with such a long-standing culinary wonder? And will she ever know what an extraordinary treasure she left behind and how sacred pasta sauce has become to our family?

Sandy Aguirre Montanino has been a realtor for the last twenty-five years and has won many national awards in her field. Through her ancestral research, she has grown to love writing her memoirs.