Jenni Dart

Spaghetti with Great Nonna Maria’s recipe for il ragù della domenica, slowly simmered Sicilian tomato sauce, has been a constant for generations.  After immigrating to Chicago, the sauce, for Nonna, offered a connection to her Italian home.  When her daughter, my Grandma Evelyn, raised her own children in Little Italy, mandatory Sunday spaghetti dinner was not only an affordable meal, but also offered protection from the growing danger and appeal of street corner gang culture surrounding Taylor Street’s public housing.

When it was my mom’s turn, spaghetti dinner was no longer restricted to Sundays, but served at least once a week. We knew it was spaghetti day when the entire house smelled of tomato, garlic, onion.  By dinner, the aroma built such suspense that Mom did not have to call the six of us to the table. My sisters and I tossed Barbie dolls aside, my brother dropped his football on the porch.  Anxiously we’d sit elbow to elbow around the kitchen table. 

My aunts all had the same recipe, but the taste was never the same as Mom’s. One a little more salty, another with consistency as thick as honey, and another more peppery flavored. Now, my siblings and I all have children of our own and each of our sauces also taste slightly different. Mine appears more red and rich in color, one sibling’s a more meaty flavor, another a hint of sweetness.  All masterpieces.  Nonna’s recipe remains constant, its flavor ever evolving.