In the summertime when all my windows are wide open, my neighbors will sometimes ask me what I have cooking. I laugh and tell them I am making a pot of sauce. It's always when my Le Creuset is filled to the brim they can smell the aromas out my kitchen window, wafting into their yards even across the street. I believe it's the love that goes into the process of making sauce, that sends delight through the air.
Growing up, my mom made sauce what seemed like every Sunday or pretty darn close to it. The tradition in our family is to start making the sauce and meatballs in the late morning, so dinner can be on the table by 2 pm. Recipes are another thing. My mother grew up watching her mother make the sauce and meatballs every week. In turn, I grew up watching my mother make it. Who needs a recipe when life gives you the experience, the first hand knowledge. I have the closest thing to a recipe written down, but you won't find any exact measurements. It's basically an outline to keep all the ingredients in harmony.
We can't pop in on Nana making sauce because she is 1,800 miles away. I am ready to bring back Sunday dinners to my family. My cravings for sauce are most innately connected to a longing for tradition, a longing to gather those I love around me, and my familial instinct to feed en masse until all bellies are content. A Sunday meal making memories.
So Sunday's shall be graced with a warm cooked Italian meal and friends around the table. Maybe, just maybe if I'm lucky, Nana will be visiting and she'll do the cooking.