As I ascend the stairs from the basement, my nose is comforted with the smell of simmering tomatoes, sautéed garlic, and onions. Classic rock greets my ears as I reach the top step, the vibration of the base pulsating throughout my entire body. Much like opening the door to the oven, the basement door opens to a mellow light and a wave of heat sweeps through the chill of my early autumn clothes. Peering into the kitchen, my eyes fall upon a large metal pot sitting atop the stove – the culprit of the delectable smell my nose had detected. What I am smelling is the overture to yet another composition my family has perfected over many generations.

Four generations before me, my family made their way from Italy to America. With them, they brought hearts filled with hope, suitcases with few belongings, and a pot full of spaghetti sauce – or at least the recipe to make one. Since then, their hearts have left us, their belongings have vanished, but their recipe and their hope has persevered. Passed from grandmother to mother to daughter, the simple yet complex-tasting combination of tomatoes, spices, and meat has found its way into the hearts of my family and our friends. 

The composition starts with the harvest of late summer tomatoes picked from a local farm just miles away from our house. These are the maestros to the symphony as they give the dish structure and order. Vine-ripened in the sun, they carry the perfect combination of juice, sweetness, and tang. Once we get them home, they are washed, blanched, and then cut into small sections. From there the tomatoes are heated and placed into sterilized jars – canning goods such as tomatoes, beets, hot sauce, and jelly is another tradition my family has passed down – which will allow them to be preserved for long periods of time. Then, on an autumn morning, my mom will run to the local butcher and get a fresh pork roast and pepperoni. These ingredients make up the percussion section; they add weight and depth to the dish. Along with the meat, a box of fresh pasta is bought. Its presence is vital to rounding out the elements of tomato and meat, and so, in essence, it is the string section of the orchestra. If crops permit, we will gather garden-fresh onion, garlic, celery, and green pepper. Much like woodwinds, they are subtle yet present in the upper notes and body of the sauce. Lastly, the horns are found in our reserve of spices. Italian in origin, they add a definite and profound element that completes the sauce. 

With all the ingredients gathered, the next step is to bring out my great-grandmother’s pot. As tall as my torso and about 14 inches wide, this well-seasoned pot is our opera house for the evening. The vegetables are washed, the meat is seasoned and browned, and the seal of the canned tomatoes is broken. Step by step, the instruments make their way into the opera house. First, the maestro, followed by the percussion. Next comes the woodwinds and, last but not least, the horns. My great-grandmother never used real measurements. Instead, she would say, “A handful of this, a pinch of that, and a palm size of those.” Roughly measured, but added with love into the pot, the ingredients are given about six to eight hours to meld their individual elements into something strikingly delightful.

As the sauce simmers, my family slowly starts to make their way into the kitchen. In Italian families, this is a place of meeting, relaxing, and connecting. We share stories about our days, engulfed in the smell of the melding spices, vegetables, and meat. 

“It will be done when the foam is gone from the surface,” my mother used to tell me when I was younger and impatiently waiting to let the symphony of flavor fill my body. With that inner child still in me, I eagerly stir the crimson red liquid with a wooden spoon, letting the steam carry its smell straight to my nose. Perfection, however, takes time and after simmering all afternoon, the sauce must still simmer another hour or so. In that time, we prepare a salad, grate Parmesan cheese, cut fresh bread, and make an olive oil dipping sauce. Despite only being the guest performers to the symphony, they are equally as important and delicious. I set the table with a backstage crew of bowls, forks, knives, wine glasses, napkins, and butter. As the foam begins to disappear from the sauce, the noodles are cooked until they are al dente, or slightly firm when bitten, and we are ready to eat.

We all grab our dishes and make our way to the counter. This is when audience participation is key. Everyone likes to organize their orchestra in a certain way. I recommend my favorite: noodles, cheese, sauce, more cheese (layering the cheese allows for it to melt into the warm noodles), two slices of bread and a small salad. With the symphony organized, we are ready for the performance. At first, there is silence. It is so good that no one wants to pause to talk. But, as bellies are filled, conversation and laughter fill the air. As if the applause to the finale, we sit around the table and relish in the happiness and warmth the dish provided us. Not only is this dish a symbol of tradition and heritage, but the act of preparing spaghetti sauce also serves as a symbol of strong family and ancestral bonds. It is within this symphony of a meal that I see the true meaning of family, hope, and perseverance.