Stirring the Pot
Picture seven bushels of gorgeous Roma tomatoes cooking slowly in stainless steel cauldrons. My mother-in-law adding cloves of crushed garlic, sprinkling in dried basil from her husband’s garden. Steam rising from the aromatic, bubbling sauce.
Maintaining distance from the heat, I stir with a meter-long paddle spatula using the worn, wooden tool’s beveled edges to prevent tomato bits from sticking to the bottom or coagulating against the side. Internally I repeat: Keep the sauce moving. Don’t let it spill over the edge. Stir the pot.
My eldest nephew, Michael, wanted to learn how to make the sauce so he could carry on the tradition after his grandparents are gone. His nonna and nonno have been making tomato sauce all of their lives, just like their siblings, although death has altered the family landscape.
Both of nonno’s brothers died from lung complications during the same awful year that Michael’s dad returned from a dream vacation cruise along the Amalfi Coast to a diagnosis of advanced stomach cancer.
His death came shockingly fast. After two horrific months of aggressive chemo treatment, my brother-in-law died at 53 — leaving his wife, three boys, and the rest of us with an indescribable void in our lives.
Making the sauce felt different this time around. Everyone was invited to lend a hand, but scheduling conflicts forced us to settle on the weekend after my son, Aurès, had already left for school. On the day his classes started earlier in the week, I realized that his birth mom, Leila, had died exactly sixteen years before.
I remember her getting lost in the subway, which made no sense because she was a native Parisian who had been riding the Metro all of her life. She was completely disoriented when she called, so I suggested she catch a cab. Although she knew where she lived in the city where she was born, Leila couldn’t find her way home.
Her situation was grim. Doctors said a brain tumor had metastasized from a primary tumor they found in her lung. She endured the standard cancer treatment protocol. Surgery, chemotherapy, radiation — the futility of slicing diseased tissue from her enfeebled body, of poisoning her cells and frying her inside. Operate. Medicate. Radiate. Repeat.
After 15 months of dreadful medical intervention, Leila’s life ended. Aurès hadn’t even turned two at the time. When it struck me that his exciting new chapter of university life began on the very same day that his mom died, I felt blindsided. Whacked out of nowhere, across time. I cried.
Loss can do that. Grief will do that. Sixteen years can pass and, all of a sudden, something aligns, time caves in, and it’s right there with you. An emptiness that finds you. Wherever you are.
Since Michael was the main one who expressed interest in learning how to make the sauce, his aunt gave him a hard time when he and his girlfriend showed up well after our agreed-upon 6 a.m. start. He was quick to counter, explaining that his grandmother told him he could come later if he wanted. (Nonna stirring the pot.)
As soon as he sat down, Michael let me know that the Tim Hortons “Roll Up The Rim” t-shirt I was wearing kind of sickened him. I had forgotten that many moons ago his first job was at Tim’s, which is also where Aurès worked until he left for school.
I gave Michael my two reasons for choosing to wear his cousin’s old Tim Hortons t-shirt: (1) it was red (2) it was my way of bringing Aurès to the gathering even though he wasn’t around anymore.
Soon this batch will be labeled, the jars wiped clean and neatly arranged on shelves in nonna’s cantina. Maybe Aurès will participate in making the sauce next year, who knows? Who can say who will be here when the first jar gets opened? Who knows who will be with us when the last one is gone?
— DT
