The Sauce

March 07, 2010

Of course I’ll always remember, ‘The Sauce’ recipe. Like I’ve told doctors who wanted to take small samples of mmy veins contents for one reason or another. What will pour out rather then the usual and ordinary blood of a human would be naturally mom’s special recipe red sauce. It’s part of our capillary heritage.

It was mom’s handed down recipe from her mom’s mom to her mom and much further back then that I’d imagine. Something like an ancient sourdough mixture still usable and found in small clay pots by archeologists in whatever place that was found. I remember they discovered it in a hole in a Yew tree dragged up Mount Kilimanjaro during the first battle between Zeus and Alberto Einsteinini.

Like many Italian mother’s I’mm sure, everyone’s mom has shared the best sauce recipe this side of their close or distant relatives original country. On any map you’ll notice the shape of a big boot? That’s it. The tradition is still the Saturday’s smell wafting well into the next days amorous sniffs of red heaven Sunday’s.

Unless of course as a young family we visited our grandparents house (mom’s parents) where basically the same smells lingered in our nostrils throughout the day. This was when any number of aunts, uncles and cousins visited as one big family. The men sat in smoke clouds and watched TV sports in the living room. All the women talked in the kitchen while Nana cooked. Wee kids had our small card table or two where the adults sat us out of the way to ‘play nice,’ they said.

It was usually a Saturday afternoon when mom would begin the hours and hour’s preparation for The Sauce. It was meant to be devoured as a family the following day. Most of us couldn’t wait that long. When she started cooking the breaded meatballs, the smell all day long including that whole night was just devastating our taste buds anticipatory glands for the next days red satisfaction.

Mom usually kept her eyes open for any bodies that even tried to get close with their little intruding fingers or hands. No matter, any one of us would still try to sneak a spoonful or two well before the actual time of perfection. I can remember a few plots of diversion that were very necessary to accomplish a taste mission.

Grown ups had an easier time of doing this as I recall. Our Uncle Lenny who lived upstairs at one point used to come down in a hurry while over the years using any number of sly excuses as a reason why; usually to stick his mitts in the big pot of red for a before it was finished taste. His tricks accomplished his treats.

Sometimes he’d deliberately stand in front of the stove making idle conversation with mom. In an incidental kind of manner he’d ask her if she would toss him, “just a little piece of bread,” or a spoon so he could taste her weekly treasure mixture of red. She usually wouldn’t resist HIS request. Most times he’d sneak tastes while she was busy doing other things. Across the small kitchen room we would sit in disgust of him being the first taster. We sat in pure red face jealousy.

I know for a fact he was the main cook in his household. He also had the same mom’s recipe. For some reason he said his sister and our mom’s tasted different; even better than his own. He couldn’t figure out why but decided the more tastes he had sooner or later he’d discover the missing ingredient; that never happened.

After watching him demolishing the stuff I think every time he said that, it was just a ruse to have another taste; better or not. When you grow up with the red stuff it’s hard to say if you’ve ever had enough. I’ve still not reached that point.

Like I’ve said, for some of us it’s in the blood. I’ve always thought that at some point like a reverse osmosis it must leak out unnoticed, little by little so that at any given point, there’s the medicinal urge to replace it, or have more, otherwise odd things would happen. Like maybe one would get cravings for Brussels’ Sprouts, Swiss Shards, Viennese Saws Edges, Hungarian Ghoul Losh, Mexican Jumping Beans, Spanish Flies or maybe even French Fried Potatoes inbred.

Needless to say, I’ve observed mom on countless occasions whenever The Sauce was in the making. With her it was and wasn’t always the same ritual. Sometimes depending on the budget or really the whole meal to be served, she’d add different kinds of meat in the beginning or at the end of the cooking process; meatballs, chicken, chop meat, Italian sausages, pork chops or bracioles.

Later on in life besides asking her for the amounts or measurements of the various ingredients, she mostly always had the same answer no matter what she was making. Like cooks of old she’d say, “Oh you know, a pinch of this or a pinch of that.” I’d have to watch anyway to see how she pinched things. In case you non-cooks don’t realise, it matters greatly which fingers are being pinched.

This was true of most of her cooking habits. Unless when searching for a new taste or trying to cook or bake something that was unfamiliar, she herself followed a recipe. If I asked any questions at that point, then she’d just shove whatever cookbook or an index card with her own hand written recipe scribed just for the occasion in mmy face and ask mme to read it to her. And that I did.

I was always interested in mom’s cooking and being around her when she did. The very first job I had when at the tender age of sixteen was in a restaurant; maybe for that reason. Although I wasn’t a cook then, but amm now, being around the preparation of food was always a joy. Mom made it fun; especially when it came to the varieties of food she could make with similar ingredients.

You’d like the ingredients of mom’s Red Sauce? I must tell you it in no way is remotely close to Mr. Newman’s Own bottled crap or any bottled, canned or packaged anything. Like the ad that once touted, “It’s in there!” It really is NOT.

It’s also a well kept family secret. Perhaps the others in our family may divulge it if they care to under penalty of the laws of divulgifcation which are serious grounds for family ostrich sigh’s meant. Tell or to write it down; a serious crime.

As for mme? Just call or email mme and I’ll come on over and make it for you. I remember how mom taught it to mme and I’ll do the same for you so that without writing it down, you’ll never forget it. Besides that it’ll mean a free meal in a place I may want to visit anyway. Hopefully you’re far away and in a warm enough or not too climate that long johns or mosquito netting is never an issue.

There is one last statute to follow. Depending on where you are of course. It’ll cost you Purr Diem and gas; from a gas station, airfare or/and ships passage. The latter with a pool and access to 24 hour pizzas; nothing at all like coach or close to engine room accommodations. Strictly first class paid in advance please.

Oh yes, I promised mom I wouldn’t forget to tell you this. There is one fair warning that should never be unheeded nor disregarded because without a doubt it goes with the territory. That is unfortunately, I or any relative no matter the location, spouse, children or pets, including frogs, won’t be held responsible for the change in your future red blood count. It’s that potent. Bon Appétit!