If there’s one thing I wanted to share from my childhood with my fiance and his three kids, it was Sunday dinners.
In 2015, five years after Gran died at 85, I moved to Los Angeles to live with my fiance, Alan, and his three kids, who stay with us half the week.
I wanted to give them the same unforgettable meal experience that Gran gave me. I wanted them to taste what it’s like to bite into al dente pasta decked with Gran’s sweet, piquant sauce and hearty meatballs , complete with peas and onions , and garlic bread . But no one in my family would tell me the recipe for what we collectively called “sauce.” No one.
I started a group text with my two sisters, who are 10 and 14 years older than I, hoping they’d give in. To cook dinner Sunday, I needed the recipe by Thursday, and it was Tuesday already. I tried threatening them:
“If no one tells me the recipe soon, I’ll just look one up online.”
“You have to watch me make it. That’s how I learned from Gran,” Missy, the oldest, wrote. “Why didn’t you pay attention all those times we made it together?”
She had a point. Soon after Gran died in 2010, Missy and I reinstated Sunday dinner by inviting family and friends from our Philadelphia neighborhood. Like Gran, we’d fry meatballs on the stove early in the morning so they could simmer in the sauce for hours. Also like Gran, we’d pre-grate cheese. We’d turn up Frank Sinatra. We’d set out large bottles of Coke and wine. It was the best way we knew to share our favorite takeaway from our childhood. But I was just the sous chef. I didn’t know the measurements, the ingredients or the cooking times. I had failed to take initiative.
“If you can read, you can cook,” Gran used to say. But there was nowhere I could read her recipe because she didn’t write it down. Thankfully, my other sister, Shayna, came through:
“Call me at 3.”
“No!” Missy texted. “Don’t do it!”
“Shayna’s my new favorite sister,” I wrote.
Because my fiance’s kids don’t stay with us Sundays, I chose a Friday night. The two oldest, both teenage girls who often make their own weekend plans, assured me they’d be there. They even seemed excited.
I met all my work deadlines early, so that morning, all I had to do was cook. I still worried I might mess up.
Gran knew what to do without consulting a cookbook. And she had made an effort to learn the recipe — something I neglected to do at the hundreds of Sunday dinners I attended.
Her mother, Carmella, prepared food all day every Sunday at their home in Baltimore when Gran was a girl. There were always people passing through their house, but Sunday was when all of them came together.
And when her mother cooked, Gran took mental notes. I can see her as a teenager in a black-and-white photo I have, her head amid a crowd of standing guests raising forkfuls of pasta. The wooden table that sat more than 20 people was full. Her father, my great-grandfather, Colergero, had made the table by hand, after immigrating to the United States from Calascibetta when he was 16. A few years later, he operated two businesses, a shoe repair shop and a restaurant, which inspired my grandmother to open her own restaurant — a cozy family eatery in Bensalem, Pa. — in the 1940s.
As I mixed ingredients for the meatballs, a sixth sense kicked in. I trusted my judgment. I added spices that weren’t in the recipe. I even mustered the audacity to dismiss the plain white slices of bread that Gran had used and made fresh bread crumbs instead from a seeded loaf. I spooned in pecorino cheese and added an egg to ensure the meatballs wouldn’t fall apart. After I browned them, I dropped them into the tomato mixture. I added a pinch of this, a handful of that. I stopped measuring. The aroma was overwhelmingly familiar. I texted Shayna:
“Should it be vigorously simmering or just bubbling a little?”
“A little.” Then I remembered. When Gran would turn the burner up too high, the sauce would splatter everywhere. It made a “tih” sound on the copper stovetop.
“How do I cut the onions that I sauté with the peas?”
“Slice thin.” I remembered chewing into the long strands.
“I put the garlic bread on 350 for how long?”
“Until it’s a little brown.”
I had to watch to know. After I closed the oven, there was nothing left to prepare. Alan and his kids trickled in, their eyes wide. They were not accustomed to seeing me in the kitchen. Their dad is the one who invents recipes on the spot and masterfully crafts his Mexican grandmother’s handmade tortillas, chile verde with pork, beans and sopa de fideo. And with lots of garlic, always. When Alan and his kids walked in the door, the first thing they noticed was the garlic scent.
“I could smell it all the way from the elevator,” Alan said.
“I could smell it all the way from the car,” his 16-year-old daughter added.
“I could smell it all the way from my school,” his 9-year-old son joked.
That night, even the picky eaters ate my pasta. I had to boil a pound more. In addition to angel hair, I made conchiglie, seashell-shape pasta, a surprise Gran would uncover for me moments before we’d sit down to dinner. Alan’s oldest daughter chose shells because she liked how they collected the sauce.
“That’s why they’re my favorite,” I said.
After we were too full to eat any more, Alan took out the playing cards, another staple of Gran’s. The kids taught me Rummy 5000, a fast-paced game they learned from Alan’s sister and brother-in-law. There was laughing and passionate shouting. Some of us refilled our plates an hour after we thought we’d had enough. We didn’t notice it — of course we didn’t notice — but afternoon changed into evening. We were still sitting at the table, all of us together. The Sunday Dinner effect had fully kicked in.
DePino is a writer living in Los Angeles. On Twitter: @youritalianhope.
10 to 12 servings
This recipe approximates the flavor and aromas of the sauce made on Sundays by the author’s Italian-American great-grandmother, Carmella DePasquale.
The author serves this sauce with angel hair or conchiglie (shell-shaped) pasta.
MAKE AHEAD: The sauce and meatballs can be frozen for up to 3 months. Defrost overnight in the refrigerator.
Based on a DePasquale family recipe; adapted by Lauren DePino, a writer based in Los Angeles.
For the sauce
5 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, run through a garlic press
6 ounces canned tomato paste
¾ cup water
Two 28-ounce cans crushed tomatoes
One 28-ounce can peeled tomatoes, plus their juices
5 fresh Roma (plum) tomatoes
1 tablespoon sugar
1 tablespoon freshly grated pecorino Romano cheese
Small handful fresh basil leaves (about 5), cut into thin ribbons
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
Freshly ground white pepper
For the meatballs
2 to 3 thick slices fresh Italian bread
Milk
1 pound ground sirloin
3 cloves garlic, run through a garlic press
3 tablespoons freshly grated pecorino Romano cheese
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
1 large egg
Extra-virgin olive oil
For the sauce: Heat the oil and garlic in a 4-quart pot over medium heat, stirring to make sure the garlic does not burn.
Stir in the tomato paste; cook for a few minutes (the paste will darken and become fragrant), then add the water and stir until well blended. Add both cans of crushed tomatoes, then crush each canned peeled tomato over the pot, letting them fall in as you work. (Note: Wear an apron; this can be messy.) Stir in the remaining juices from the cans of peeled tomatoes.
Cut the fresh Roma tomatoes into chunks, transferring them to a food processor as you work. Pulse just until evenly chunky, then carefully add to the pot. Add the sugar, cheese and basil, a good pinch each of salt and black pepper and a small pinch of white pepper. Give the mixture a stir, partially cover, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for at least 2 hours, stirring regularly to avoid any scorching. The yield is about 12 cups.
While the sauce is cooking, make the meatballs: Tear the bread into pieces and place in a mixing bowl. Add just enough milk just to moisten them, draining any excess.
Add the ground sirloin, garlic, cheese, a good pinch each of salt and pepper and the egg; use your clean hands to mix them all together until well incorporated. Form 12 to 16 meatballs, placing them on a cutting board as you work.
Line a plate with paper towels. Heat enough oil to coat the bottom of a medium cast-iron or nonstick skillet, over medium heat. Once the oil shimmers, add half the meatballs and cook for 6 to 8 minutes, turning so they are browned on all sides. They will not be cooked through.
Transfer them to the lined plate to drain briefly, then add the meatballs to the pot of sauce. Repeat with the remaining meatballs.
Once they are all in the pot, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook for 2 hours, and up to 8 hours, gently stirring every now and then, until the sauce has thickened and becomes rich-looking. The meatballs should be tender and somewhat smaller.
Serve warm, with pasta.
8 to 10 servings
This is the perfect side for a plate of spaghetti and meatballs — maybe even better than a green salad. It’s definitely worth it to use fresh green peas when they’re in season.
From Los Angeles writer Lauren DePino.
Extra-virgin olive oil
½ medium red onion, thinly sliced
1 pound bagged frozen peas (see headnote)
Heat the oil in a large cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Once the oil shimmers, stir in the onion, then add the peas. Cook for 5 to 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the onion is lightly browned and the peas are tender.
Serve hot.
8 to 10 servings
Simple to make, this makes the house smell wonderful on a Sunday afternoon, especially when the promise of red sauce and meatballs is on hand. This version has prominent garlic flavor and goes light on the cheese.
MAKE AHEAD: The bread can be assembled and wrapped in foil a day in advance; let it come to room temperature while the oven preheats.
From Los Angeles writer Lauren DePino.
1 large fresh Italian loaf, preferably with sesame seeds (10 ounces total)
8 tablespoons (1 stick) salted butter, at room temperature
6 cloves garlic, run through a garlic press
3 tablespoons freshly grated pecorino Romano cheese
Position a rack in the upper third of the oven; preheat to 350 degrees. Line a rimmed baking sheet with aluminum foil.
Use a serrated knife to make a horizontal cut through the bread, place both halves cut sides up on the baking sheet.
Spread the butter on the cut sides, then evenly distribute the garlic and cheese between them. Bake (top rack) for 5 to 8 minutes, or until browned and crisped on the edges.
Keep warm until ready to serve.
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