....... It's taking the time to remember things. It’s taking time to stir intentionally, allowing the tomatoes to slowly cook into the foundation, a broken down story of what was once whole. 

It’s a process of magic. Of remembering how each and every one of your grandparents had their own version of sauce. Whose was sweet. Whose was spicy. Whose was complex. Whose had a hog foot in it. Who threw in a hard boiled egg. And figuring out what yours is. What are the layers of you, your lineage, in a sauce? It is a spell. What does this oregano do for it. What does the thyme bring to it? What is the song the basil will sing? What will this sauce cling to, your future, you past, what lives beyond.

Making sauce was making a re-connection back to my roots. I fled. I ran away. I left what I was and wanted to erase. I wanted to escape the bones of my family. I wanted to cut down the trees that linked it together. Because I was stuck between generations. I didn’t know who we were - but the kid who was called a greasy WOP. A girl who the Swedish boys weren’t allowed to date. I was the daughter of an alcoholic bookie who was repeatedly arrested and in jail but revered on the streets. The daughter, the 7th child of a mother named after Our Lady of Sorrow,  an aware partaker in patriarchal bullshit, a woman who longed for her own liberation. 

But really, all I wanted was a deeper understanding of how every generation made love to each other with their slow cooked sauce, how every one of us, from a thousand years came to bring me here, in this moment, through the food they slowed cooked from survival and love. 

...... Want to read the rest?

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xx mb