Hum's Marinara Sauce

At her funeral, the priest cries. 

At first it just sounds like he's laughing, with those weird little choking noises he makes. It’s not until I see the fat tears roll down his cheeks in the middle of his eulogy that I realize what the noises mean. 

This is what she did to people. This is what she made them feel.

Many people have helped me come to love cooking. My grandmother made me fall in love with it.

Many people say that a meal is nothing more than its ingredients, a recipe is nothing more than the steps you take to put them together. I don't believe this. She sure as hell didn't either.

A recipe is the person who made it. It is the people they share it with. 

It is warmth of a kitchen and the smell of sautéing and the feeling of comfort and a pride in creativity.

This sauce has no recipe, not really. What it has is something that cannot be memorized, but must be felt. It has intuition. It has patience. It is a pinch more basil, a bit more caramelized with those onions there, and a little lower on the heat. It is me as a girl standing at my grandmother’s side, tugging at her apron, “Are the onions brown enough yet? Can we add the tomatoes now?”

“No, Elizabeth.”

“How about now?”

“Elizabeth, I know you know they’re not ready.”

“Now? They look ready. I think they’re ready.”

“Elizabeth.” Just my name, said around a smirk and followed with an eyebrow raise. “Not. Yet.”

I say that I love pasta, that’s not what I mean. 

Okay, that’s definitely what I mean. 

But what I also mean is that I love more than just marinara. I love the woman who taught me what it means to give the people you love a meal that they love. How good that feeling is. That feeling of creating something that’s mine. 

It is the confidence and the comfort and the memories.  

It is cold tile against my bare feet. It is flour in my hair, the smell of olive oil on my skin. It is feeling without thinking. It is creating without measuring. It is one of the greatest gifts I have ever gotten.

I come over after school on a Friday afternoon. 

I tell her about being late to 4th period and my History test and how I had to walk around all day with the back of my skirt wet after I sat too close to the fountain at lunch. She tells me which relative called to catch up and that the refrigerator is making those odd clicking noises again. 

I roll up the sleeves of my uniform jacket. I slip out of my shoes and into one of her aprons. It smells like her shampoo and the last time we made that strawberry pie at the end of August.

We are close enough that our aprons brush against each other when we move, close enough that I can smell the garlic on her fingers, see the wrinkles move around her eyes. We are mostly quiet. Everyone will be coming over soon, disrupting the moment, lifting the lid and tasting the too-hot sauce with fingers that aren't washed, asking when dinner’ll be ready.  

“Don’t forget to stir the sauce, Elizabeth. You don’t want it to burn on the bottom.”

“Grandma, I know. I make this all the time. I won’t.”

She wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh, you know do you?”

“Duh, Grandma.”

“Well, good. I’ll leave you to it then.”

Hum’s Marinara Sauce

1 large onion, chopped

2  large cloves garlic, minced

extra virgin olive oil

1 (28 oz) can tomato puree

1-2 large pinches dried basil

1 large pinch dried oregano

salt and pepper

Place a large saucepot over medium to medium-high heat. Drizzle olive oil over bottom to create a light coat. Add the onions, and sauté for a few minutes. Add the garlic and continue sautéing until the onions are well done (caramelized and very brown in color), stirring frequently and adding more oil if the onions stick.  

Add the tomato puree and a small amount of water (fill the can about ¼- ½ full and swirl to remove remaining tomato, then poor into the pot). Add a large pinch of basil, a pinch of oregano, salt and pepper. Let simmer for 30 minutes or longer with the lid on, stirring occasionally to avoid burning. Taste, adding additional seasoning as necessary.