If you grew up in New Jersey and your family is Italian you have most likely collected a few old and delicious recipes along the way.
This is a story about Meatballs and Gravy.
First, we need to define these two words to clear up any confusion.
Real meatballs are a creation made with love in your very own kitchen. They are not the frozen balls of meat you can buy in the supermarket or big box stores. They are made of ground beef, sometimes pork and lamb, mixed with eggs, breadcrumbs, parmesan cheese, parsley, salt and pepper – and perhaps a bit of milk. Peter and I are still arguing about this last ingredient.
Gravy is not a jar that says Ragú or Prego on it and it is definitely not called 'sauce'. Real ragú or gravy for a family from southern Italy, is a conglomeration that magically comes together on a Sunday morning in many Italian kitchens. The aroma wanders throughout the house and permeates every nook and cranny.
For those of us that slept-in as teenagers, if your nostrils were awakened by this heavenly smell, you knew that it was Sunday and it was time to get up and get ready to go to church. Better than any alarm clock I’ve ever known.
For many generations of Ciccolellas, gravy starts with tomato sauce, tomato puree and crushed tomatoes, olive oil, wine, onions and spices. If you were lucky enough to have canned your own tomatoes from the garden, like my mother-in-law used to do, bless her soul, then this fragrant fresh ingredient replaced the canned tomatoes - for sure! Then you add the meats of your choice, some people add lamb, some pork – My favorite is pork ribs! Peter’s favorite is braciolas – thin filets of beef, layered with spices, garlic, cheese, bacon or lard and sometimes, small bits of pork – all rolled up and held together by string or toothpicks. Peter and I have gone the Molfettese way, so we use toothpicks. Once all this comes together and simmers for a while --- you add the meatballs!
When my Italian dad married my Venezuelan mom, one of the first orders of business, serious business, was for my dad to teach my mom how to make “the gravy” or “il ragú”. My mom learned well. She made the ragú for the family every Sunday morning for many, many years. I was allowed to observe, but I was not allowed to actually make the gravy until I was married. I am not sure what one had to do with the other, but I think there can only be one gravy maker in a household. So … when I got married, I got to make the gravy! It was like a rite of passage. Before long, I was “making the gravy” on Sunday morning just like my mom had.
Well, here comes the kicker - about twenty-five years into our marriage, my husband decided to try his hand at making the gravy. Did I mention that he loves to cook? Now remember – only one ragú maker allowed in each household! He had watched the process go on long enough, so why not?
Well - I cannot lie - he made a very delicious gravy. So much so that my youngest son said, “Wow mom, dad’s gravy might even be better than yours!” That was the day that I passed the baton to the next gravy maker in the family and went off to lick my wounds from the stake that had been driven through my heart! (insert laughter here)
Peter and I made a pact that day. I said, “Petrie, I’ve made the gravy for 25 years. The next 25 years are yours!”
Well, it’s been his job for 18 years already!! Stay tuned and I’ll let you know what happens in 2028!