In the Gargano of my childhood, Sunday had its own precise smell. Even before opening my eyes, you knew it was Sunday -- because the house smelled of sugo. That smell was a promise: today we eat together.
Sunday Morning
My mother Ilda got up early on Sunday mornings -- before everyone else. I could hear the sounds from the kitchen, the click of the gas ring lighting, the smell of oil heating. Then the hiss of meat browning. Then the tomatoes. Then the bay leaves.
When I got up, the sugo had already been on for an hour. My mother stirred it occasionally with a wooden spoon -- the same spoon as always, darkened by years -- and checked the flame. Very low. The sugo must not boil, it must barely simmer.
The Braciole
The Sunday sugo of the Gargano was not a simple tomato sauce. Inside were the braciole -- thin slices of beef rolled with parsley, garlic and Grana Padano, tied with twine or secured with toothpicks. Cooked for hours in the sauce, until they were as tender as butter.
The pasta was dressed with the sauce. The braciole were eaten afterwards, as a second course. Two courses from one pot. The cooking of waste nothing, use everything, make much from little.
"sugo is not made in a hurry. sugo is made on Sunday morning, when you have time, when the family is home, when there is nowhere to rush to. sugo is the time you give to the people you love."
A Ritual That Endures
Today I live in Emilia, far from the Gargano. But on Sunday mornings, when I can, I light the gas ring early. I brown the meat, add the tomatoes, put in the bay leaves. And I wait. The smell that drifts through the house is the same as forty years ago.
Some things do not change. Not because they cannot change -- but because they should not. Sunday sugo is one of those things.
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