Grandma's Sugo Over Homemade Fusilli

This sauce recipe has been in my family for generations.  It was a staple in my Italian grandmother's kitchen and conjures memories from a time long ago, when I would perch atop a chair at her kitchen table, my feet barely reaching the the floor.  I remember swinging my legs back and forth excitedly as I dunked hunks of fresh baked bread in to a bowl of her piping hot sauce.  I also remember gladly scalding the roof of my mouth with each heavenly bite.

I believe that the entire neighborhood knew when she was making sauce, as it would perfume the house and indeed the block.  If I was with her prior to commencing the process, she would send me downstairs to the pantry to fetch several #10 cans of tomatoes.  Up and down the stairs I would go carrying the heavy cans.  I distinctly remember that she considered the quality of those tomatoes as paramount. She explained that she knew the local family that grew them.  I can still see the bright red label with "6 in1" printed on each can.  I also remember that when eaten straight from the can, they were sweet like candy and incomparably red.

The process would begin with sautéing aromatics in olive oil.  Then came the tomatoes, handfuls of fresh, torn basil leaves from her garden, lovingly prepared braciole, freshly made sausage links from her favorite, local butcher, dozens of her mind-blowing  meatballs, and copious amounts of heady olive oil.

All went in to a massive pot that I could have probably fit myself in to.  After many hours, basically all day, the sauce turned a deep brick red, and the olive oil pooled magically at the top.  At this point, she would ladle her liquid love in to a tiny bowl just for me.  I would sit at her kitchen table savoring the heady aroma wafting from the steaming bowl, content with the notion that there was nowhere else I'd rather be.