A Tribute

One of the many intangible miracles of food is its ability to act as an agent of memory. I have never forgotten the origination of what I deemed in the previous post as my mom’s meat sauce; in fact, long before I wrote that entry, I wrote a piece during my junior year of college that awards proper credit for the creation of the Zonetti family tomato sauce. The following is the first half of the piece:

The Italians of my father’s family share many features—short height, raucous voices, and flamboyant gestures, to name a few. But when I think of the quintessential trait that binds us all, I think of sauce. We like sauce a lot. We like sauce so much that it’s a crime to leave dirty streaks of red coagulating on your plate after you’ve finished your homemade pasta; acceptance in the family requires swabbing your dish with a piece of crispy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside Italian bread to absorb the previous remains. My grandfather once scolded a newcomer (my mom) to the family who, innocently trying to help my grandmother clean up after dinner, nearly washed the sauce platter used to hold the spaghetti. “What are you doing?” he exclaimed, frantically seizing the dish and grabbing a piece of bread. At home, store-bought sauce is illegal and cause for scoffing and/or chastising if spotted in the pantry.

When I was born, my family wasted no time with my Italian baptism; they introduced me to the sauce as a toddler, just after my teeth had developed, at the weekly Sunday night family dinner. My parents placed me in the high chair in my grandparents’ dining room and set in front of me a dish with my grandfather’s made-from-scratch spaghetti smothered with my grandmother’s homemade tomato sauce. Then the two of them along with Dad, Aunt Lisa, Uncle Joe, Aunt Mary, and Uncle Gary crowded around me, wide-eyed, leaning forward, as Mom fed me my first bite of the family meal. Will she like it? Will we be able to accept her into the family as a true Zonetti?

The recipe for this sauce originated with Patty, or Nanny as I called her, my paternal grandmother. Her mother, who came from Northern Italy, had made a light, chunky, and watery tomato sauce. As a married woman in America, Nanny would diverge from this recipe and create a thicker, smoother, meatier sauce; through trial and error, she worked to establish this keystone family recipe. I was the first-born grandchild, so my potential aversion to the sauce would have betrayed not only Nanny but also every member of the family, all of whom inhaled her heavy, unsweetened, slightly tangy creation. And so my family waited for me to swallow that first bite. Will she disappoint us?

Not in the least. I eagerly opened my mouth for more and have savored the dish ever since. Nanny died when I was four, ending the tradition of weekly family dinners. But several times throughout the year, the family reunites to celebrate. The memory of Nanny dwells in pouring her sauce over pasta from the same luxurious glass spout that once graced her table and which now rests in my parents’ hutch, used only for this special meal.