![]() ![]() I raced through it-napkin, fork, knife, spoon … roll … napkin, fork, knife, spoon … roll-the rhythm so deeply ingrained I could do it with my eyes closed. ![]() It was Saturday night, and I was doing what I’d done every Saturday night since I was ten: rolling silverware in the empty dining room of my family’s restaurant (Taverna Ristorante, est. I realize framing a recipe for tomato sauce sounds strange, but it’s a reminder, not just of my mother but that every cook has to start somewhere. It’s stained with oil splatters, and one corner’s ripped. The recipe is written on an unlined index card. I have it displayed in a five-by-seven, plastic craft store frame on the desk in my room, the desk where I’m supposed to do homework but can’t because it’s covered in books and dirty clothes. I never knew my mother, but I know this recipe by heart. He likes to add oregano and basil and more garlic-always more garlic. ![]() My father says this tomato sauce was the first thing my mother mastered in the kitchen. ![]() Dash in some salt and pepper, and there you have it. You crush the tomatoes with your hands and stew them over low heat in their own juices with garlic, onions, and a bay leaf that have been sautéed in extra-virgin olive oil. Then you pull back the skins, just like peeling a banana. You dunk them in boiling water, just for a second-maybe ten-and run them under cold water. To peel them, you use a sharp knife to cut a tiny X in the skin at one end. My mother’s recipe for tomato sauce starts with ripe plum tomatoes. ![]()
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