In my garage, I have flats and flats of empty one-quart jars. How much can each hold? The answer isn’t so obvious. I’ll tell you what I mean.
When I was a little girl, Saturdays we made sauce. My grandmother, Louise Anita Pistoresi, wore a housecoat and slippers. I climbed up the step stool beside her. I did as I was told. It took all day.
As long as I can remember, there was the sauce, and the sauce was always the same, like a bedtime story is always the same. Because an Italian sauce is a story – it tells where you come from. It tells who you are. Louise Pistoresi’s sauce told of Lucca Italy, of Ellis Island, of the Depression, of grit, of family.
Now, this is my sauce. Let me tell you about working mothers, about not enough time, about blended family. Let me tell you about a Saturday, how it takes all day, and the step stool I have. Let me invite you to sit, to eat, and to enjoy.