Marinara

Hi, Dear Readers. It’s great to be back.  Hope you all had a marvelous holiday.  I sure did.

I went to Seattle to visit my son, Nick, his beauteous wife Missy and the love of my son’s life, Lucy, their Blue Tick Coon Hound.

Here’s the view from my window.

That white stuff in the distance is the Cascades.  The Vashon Island Ferry embarkation point is at the end of the street.

And here’s my roommate.

The four of us had a ball.  The weather was cooperative- sunny and crisp- and so Nick, Lucy and I went hiking every day through terrain like this.

(Photograph by Nick Ross)

This fallen tree cut off our descent so we detoured around it.  Contrary to my “woodsy” image, I am not John Muir.

We also made time for some local Seattle high culture.  Last Friday, November 27th, was Jimi Hendrix’s birthday. He would have been seventy-three years old.  Hard to believe, of course, because I picture him eternally like this.

My son worships him.  No exaggeration.  So it felt only right to me that we make a pilgrimage out to his grave.

Other people had the same idea.  When we got there, we found balloons and birthday cake waiting.

We stayed a while and I reminisced about the first time I heard “Foxy Lady ” and “Purple Haze.” (University of Wisconsin, Madison, December, 1967.)  Nick talked about all the great musicians Jimi influenced.  Then we paid our final respects and played this all the way home.

Serendipity is one of my favorite things.  I never expected to be in Seattle at Jimi Hendrix’s grave on his birthday.  The universe just kind of aligned.  But the one thing I did expect to do on this trip- and I did- was cook.

I came loaded for bear. I even brought this out with me.

The kids cook but I just knew they would never be caught dead in anything like an actual apron.  And there was one more thing I had to do before I started chopping and dicing and mincing and carving.

I gathered up the knives and Missy obligingly drove me over to their local True Value.  A few minutes later, I was now in possession of cutlery that could really kick ass and take names.

It was time to make the marinara.

I learned to make marinara sauce- as I actually learned how to do most of my cooking- from my Florentine boyfriend, Paolo, way back in 1975.

Paolo was a strict disciplinarian when it came to making his favorite sugo.  The olive oil, garlic and tomatoes had to come from his country house.  And he insisted on showing me everything from the correct size of the dice to the order that the ingredients went into the specific pot to the right amount of seasoning to the precise way to stir the heady brew as it gently cooked down to its deep ruby red, succulent essence.

He would even hold my hand as I stirred it with the one special wooden spoon he had so lovingly chosen for me.

Great marinara was in the details and after months of practice, Paolo would taste it, shrug, sigh and pronounce, “Fatta dall’americana.”  (“Made by an American.”)

But he would eat it.

But I’m not Paolo, and to me, the beauty of marinara sauce is that it’s custom-made to clean out the vegetable bin in your refrigerator.

Wilted celery?  Perfect.  An onion about to give up the ghost?  Favoloso.  Green onions getting dried out and limp? Even better.

So I would change up the ingredients or the amounts as the spirit moved me.  I just knew that when I had random veggie odds and ends in the fridge, it was time to make the pasta sauce.

But one thing always stuck with me from that Florentine cucina all those years ago.

Paolo had drilled into me what the final product should taste like.

His taste.  That is to say his mother’s demanding palate.

Upon reflection, I am sure that all these years my family has eaten- and loved- Paolo’s mother’s recipe for tomato sauce.

See that’s the thing about marinara.  It’s all what you’re used to eating when you were a kid.

My family – and a few ex husbands or two- loved my marinara. But it wasn’t ever really mine.  It was seasoned to Paolo’s mother’s taste buds.

The Chinese philosopher Lin Yutang once said, “What is patriotism but the love of the food one ate as a child?”

So I guess you could say I raised a bunch of fiorentini.

And no matter where my family lives- Seattle, Boston, Chicago- the secret ingredient of her sauce- and mine- was and always will be…

Amore.

Glad to be back, guys.

“Alla Famiglia!”