Spaghetti sauce is a labor of love.
Not the jarred stuff. And especially not those soulless cans. No, those are lacking love like the rickety, rusted old bike in the back yard of an abandoned 1950s suburban home.
No. Jarred and canned sauce doesn’t know the passion and the fire of love. Jarred spaghetti sauce is lackluster. It doesn’t know the sweet temperature control. The “low n’ slow.” It doesn’t know the passion of tasting that basil that you chopped, or if you’re fancy, chiffonaded burst with flavor amongst the sea of tomatoes. Canned sauce doesn’t know the surly gust of neutralization that the minute teaspoon of baking soda provides. It doesn’t know the voice of your grandmother saying, “It’s too sweet. Cook it longer.”
Jarred sauce is unnaturally thick. Canned sauce too. To get that thickness in the real world, you have to cook it down. Pour your heart and soul into that small-child-sized sauce pot and pray that whatever gods out there (but if you’re doing it right, it’s the Catholic God) smile upon this mixture of tomato and herbs.
There are no conveyor belts. No tubes. No mechanic necessary to fix the process.
Low and slow. Tomato. Basil. Garlic (and lots of it). Water. Oregano. Rosemary. Thyme.
Home-made spaghetti sauce is made with love. It’s a book in Latin waiting to be translated to English. It’s your mother picking you up and mending your wounds. It’s your first love.
Spaghetti sauce is a labor of love.
Not the jarred stuff. And especially not those soulless cans. No, those are lacking love like the dusty, grimy shoes left on the rack for 10 years at the Salvation Army, just praying and waiting to be worth a pretty penny.
No. Jarred and canned cause doesn’t know the sweet temptation of waiting that week. That—long—week—of—brewing. Jarred and canned sauces do not know the tickle on the tip of your tongue. The urgency of that first taste. They don’t understand. They do not sense the longing and love. They do not appreciate the brilliantly masked foreign meats. Jarred sauces don’t know the love of rabbit and venison and boar and antelope and old-school butchery.
Jarred and canned sauces are appreciated in the dwindling hours of the day amongst the I-worked-all-day-blues, under dim lamps in front of foggy, midnight T.V. shows. Real spaghetti sauce is appreciated amongst friends, cousins, aunts (that always question the meat), uncles, mothers, fathers, sisters, grandmas and grandpas. They are appreciated under laughs of Pollack, Swede and Italian (but not us) jokes.
Jarred and canned sauces are accompanied on stage with frozen meatballs. They are given a partner in crime that is less than partner-ly, and who lays all the blame on them. Jarred and canned sauces fight long, abusive, and tiring fights with their disgusting, artificial frozen friends. They attempt to add glitter and gold…. But the shit pile still stinks.
Home-made spaghetti sauce is accompanied by their luxurious friends. These friends were birthed from the same loins their dance partner was birthed from. Home-made meatballs… Low n’ slow. Cooked… No, born. They are born in the beautiful, passionate love of home-made sauce. Mixed and rolled to perfection. Plopped into the 25-gallon drum. Flavors meld and blend and marry. Perfection.
Now, ask yourself: What do you want in your pasta bowl? Which of these potential dates are you willing to buy? Unlike a charity date auction, the prices are set. Are you willing to pay the price? Are you willing to pay more for inauthenticity? Are you willing to pay more for less? Are you willing to pay more for cold, lifeless convenience?
Or are you willing to spend some time and expend some love and passion? Are you willing to mimic Van Gogh and chop off your convenience ear for love?
Spaghetti sauce is the beat of a heart through a warm chest. Spaghetti sauce is the power of thousands rallying for freedom. Spaghetti sauce is a connection. A bond. A labor of love. How much would you sacrifice for convenience?
