Not Your Mother's Pomodoro Sauce
I dated an Italian guy once. His parents were off the boat, from the same town that gave us the Sopranos. They spoke Italian, had big Sunday dinners in Northern Jersey where the whole mishpocha would converge, and all that went with it.
He was American Italian, an Italian one step removed. But his dating rules were old school. Bada bing for a night with the guys: totally acceptable. A woman who cooks and expects her boyfriend to clean the dishes: totally unacceptable. We went nowhere fast, but not before I was able to learn a thing or two in his mom's kitchen.
One of my favorites: her salad dressing. Every Sunday she put out this bowl of salad, for 20. Basic greens and a simple vinaigrette. But something about this salad was uniquely delicious. A flavor I couldn’t place.
I finally got the courage to ask her about it one night while I was doing the dishes. She told me that she could share the recipe, but no matter how hard I tried I could never match the flavor. She pointed to her imported olive oil, some basic red wine vinegar, the salt and pepper, and held up her hands. “I toss with my hands. After cooking all day, they’re in the garlic, the herbs. That’s what gives the dressing the flavor.”
Now that’s a recipe. Basic, authentic, off-the-boat. It's everything you'd never see in a four-star restaurant, but it’s the absolute essence of home cooking. Thank god she makes the desserts days in advance, or we'd have some funky tiramisu.
My first introduction to Momma was on the telephone, after I made my signature tomato sauce for Luigi. I served it with al dente pasta, some nice garlic bread, and Parm to grate at the table. Simple, basic, classic.
When I called him to the table, he looked at it the pasta like he was going to make love to it. He had been smelling my sauce all day, and giving Pavlov's dogs a run. He took a bite, smiled at me, and said, “Call Momma.”
“You love it?” I said.
“It’s good, Allison. Good.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s just not Momma's. Hers is perfect. Have her walk you through it so you can make it right.”
With that, he stood up, found a Godfather marathon on SpikeTV and ordered Chinese.
Though he was tucchus rested comfortably on my ejection button, my food curiosity got the better of me. I called Momma.
She vaguely but generously walked me through her sauce. It wasn’t hard at all, I just needed the fresh tomatoes that her husband gets in his garden, in late August, and a handful of his fresh basil. Well, first I really needed to skin the tomatoes, then put them through a food mill. Then I get that good garlic that her friend smuggles over in the plane from Italy, cut it paper thin, and give it a little olive oil. I cook the tomato puree until it’s perfect, Luigi can tell me when that is, and then just tear the basil and toss it in. Not too much, not to little. Salt, maybe. Depends on the season.
This nothing-to-it recipe came with produce I could never score, years of cooking experience I will never have, and a palate I couldn't please. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, no? Turn up the Puccini and let’s get cooking.
Or, you could try my sauce. It’s simple, replicable and can be made any time of year. It’s been tested on my client’s husbands and wives without fail, and has led to many a passionate evening (I’ve been told). And the best part of it, you can tweak it a million different ways, call it your own, and keep the recipe from your son’s girlfriend. Or share it. Up to you.
Ciao Luigi Pomodoro Sauce
By The Wooden Spoon
Inspired by Marcella Hazan
This recipe is fantastic with gnocchi, or a simple pasta topping. I also like it to dip with a nice loaf of grilled Italian bread for breakfast, or in addition to the classic olive oil at a restaurant.
2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes (I like Muir Glen)
1 medium onion, peeled and halved
1 stick unsalted butter
Salt, red pepper flakes to taste
1. Put a large skillet or braising pot on the stovetop. Open the cans of tomatoes, and take the tomatoes, one by one, and squish them in between your fingers, discarding the tough part at the top which had been attached to the stem. The tomatoes may spray if you’re too aggressive; you might want to do this over a deeper bowl if your kitchen is getting messy.
2. Once the tomatoes are all squished, add the butter, and the onions, cut side down. Turn the heat to medium high, and add a few pinches of salt. Let the whole thing come to a simmer, and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, about 1 ½ to 2 hours. When it starts to look like a very thick, tomatoey sauce, give it a taste. The sauce should take on an intense, sweet, rich flavor, but be balanced with natural acids. Season with salt, and red pepper flakes if desired. Discard the onion prior to serving.
He was American Italian, an Italian one step removed. But his dating rules were old school. Bada bing for a night with the guys: totally acceptable. A woman who cooks and expects her boyfriend to clean the dishes: totally unacceptable. We went nowhere fast, but not before I was able to learn a thing or two in his mom's kitchen.
One of my favorites: her salad dressing. Every Sunday she put out this bowl of salad, for 20. Basic greens and a simple vinaigrette. But something about this salad was uniquely delicious. A flavor I couldn’t place.
I finally got the courage to ask her about it one night while I was doing the dishes. She told me that she could share the recipe, but no matter how hard I tried I could never match the flavor. She pointed to her imported olive oil, some basic red wine vinegar, the salt and pepper, and held up her hands. “I toss with my hands. After cooking all day, they’re in the garlic, the herbs. That’s what gives the dressing the flavor.”
Now that’s a recipe. Basic, authentic, off-the-boat. It's everything you'd never see in a four-star restaurant, but it’s the absolute essence of home cooking. Thank god she makes the desserts days in advance, or we'd have some funky tiramisu.
My first introduction to Momma was on the telephone, after I made my signature tomato sauce for Luigi. I served it with al dente pasta, some nice garlic bread, and Parm to grate at the table. Simple, basic, classic.
When I called him to the table, he looked at it the pasta like he was going to make love to it. He had been smelling my sauce all day, and giving Pavlov's dogs a run. He took a bite, smiled at me, and said, “Call Momma.”
“You love it?” I said.
“It’s good, Allison. Good.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “It’s just not Momma's. Hers is perfect. Have her walk you through it so you can make it right.”
With that, he stood up, found a Godfather marathon on SpikeTV and ordered Chinese.
Though he was tucchus rested comfortably on my ejection button, my food curiosity got the better of me. I called Momma.
She vaguely but generously walked me through her sauce. It wasn’t hard at all, I just needed the fresh tomatoes that her husband gets in his garden, in late August, and a handful of his fresh basil. Well, first I really needed to skin the tomatoes, then put them through a food mill. Then I get that good garlic that her friend smuggles over in the plane from Italy, cut it paper thin, and give it a little olive oil. I cook the tomato puree until it’s perfect, Luigi can tell me when that is, and then just tear the basil and toss it in. Not too much, not to little. Salt, maybe. Depends on the season.
This nothing-to-it recipe came with produce I could never score, years of cooking experience I will never have, and a palate I couldn't please. Sounds like a great Sunday afternoon in the kitchen, no? Turn up the Puccini and let’s get cooking.
Or, you could try my sauce. It’s simple, replicable and can be made any time of year. It’s been tested on my client’s husbands and wives without fail, and has led to many a passionate evening (I’ve been told). And the best part of it, you can tweak it a million different ways, call it your own, and keep the recipe from your son’s girlfriend. Or share it. Up to you.
Ciao Luigi Pomodoro Sauce
By The Wooden Spoon
Inspired by Marcella Hazan
This recipe is fantastic with gnocchi, or a simple pasta topping. I also like it to dip with a nice loaf of grilled Italian bread for breakfast, or in addition to the classic olive oil at a restaurant.
2 28-ounce cans whole tomatoes (I like Muir Glen)
1 medium onion, peeled and halved
1 stick unsalted butter
Salt, red pepper flakes to taste
1. Put a large skillet or braising pot on the stovetop. Open the cans of tomatoes, and take the tomatoes, one by one, and squish them in between your fingers, discarding the tough part at the top which had been attached to the stem. The tomatoes may spray if you’re too aggressive; you might want to do this over a deeper bowl if your kitchen is getting messy.
2. Once the tomatoes are all squished, add the butter, and the onions, cut side down. Turn the heat to medium high, and add a few pinches of salt. Let the whole thing come to a simmer, and simmer gently, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens, about 1 ½ to 2 hours. When it starts to look like a very thick, tomatoey sauce, give it a taste. The sauce should take on an intense, sweet, rich flavor, but be balanced with natural acids. Season with salt, and red pepper flakes if desired. Discard the onion prior to serving.
posted by Allison Fishman Task at 1:22 PM
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