Josephine’s Gravy(Gerald R Gioglio) “Don’t be satisfied with stories… Unfold your own myth.” -Rumi-

“Gravy” or “Sauce” on your spaghetti? It depends on who you ask.

Many folks of Sicilian heritage might scream “It’s Sauce! I put gravy on my roast.” Then again, some hyphenated Italian or Sicilian Americans might see it otherwise.

I really cannot tell you how my Nonna (Grandmother) Josephine would describe the scrumptious, saucy concoction ladled over her Spaghetti and Meatballs. Born in Sicily about 1872, she died in New Jersey in 1933, fourteen years before I was born. Still, I know her and feel close to her. Oral tradition, ephemera, and some serious genealogical research suggests she was a strong woman, a humble, happy and loving individual. One who lost my grandfather at a young age, became a small entrepreneur to support her two children, and eventually married another immigrant Sicilian--a single-father of two boys--successfully blending their families.

Luckily, her recipe was passed down through her daughter-in-law Margaret, my thoroughly modern German American mother. Neatly printed on rabbit-eared, ambered and stained index cards, it occupies a place of honor as the very first recipe that appears in my otherwise alphabetized recipe box.

My mother’s Americanized interpretation of Nonna’s recipe (using canned and boxed ingredients) stands on its own and my family loves it, even if it does not completely conform to what was handed down from “the old country.”

I have cooked the Americanized version over many decades, but then I started to fuss over it, as if being called to ask, WWJD…(What Would Josephine Do?) So, I broke out the index cards and once again envisioned being with her. Soon enough I really felt her presence. She was in the kitchen with me, and we went to work…

First, I laid out the ingredients, a large can of San Marzano Tomatoes, cans of tomato paste, a Spanish onion and garlic cloves. From the refrigerator came a block of Parmesan cheese, from the cabinet herbs, baking soda, sugar and salt.
Diminutive in stature, I felt her standing by my side peering curiously past my upper arm at the cans on the counter. Being somewhat appalled, I imagine her demanding, “Where are the fresh tomatoes?” Contritely, I’d mumble Grandmother, I do know how to par-boil, peel and core them and have done so often, but these days things are easier. See, the thickened tomato paste is now available in cans, no need for reduction. And today, we will use the best canned tomatoes produced in Italy, grown in the rich volcanic soil of Mount Vesuvius. See how elongated they are, packed in a thick brine -- looking much like the Roma tomatoes you grew, peeled and used.”

I sense her skeptical look and tortured brow, imagine getting a love tap with a wooden spoon and suspect she might insist, “The old fashion way is the best way, “beddu figlio miu” (“my beautiful son.”)

I see my Nonna as something of a purist, growing her own tomatoes, onions, garlic and herbs on vacant lots at her homestead in Edison, New Jersey. No store-bought ingredients or canned tomatoes for her. Indeed, some of the black and white photographs I inherited depict her with family members holding baskets full of produce soon to be headed for the kitchen.
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She watches, somewhat nervously as I heat the water, add the tomatoes, and chop the onions and garlic. I sense a half-smile of approval as I nip off the ends of the garlic and roll each piece in the palm of my hands, easily removing the paper-thin membrane from the pungent bulb. Soon the sautéed garlic and onions fill the air with the expectant aroma of something Sicilian-American about to be born.

I add some country ribs for browning and wonder if my divergence from pigs’ knuckles may be a bit too modern for Grandmother. But then, I vision a light touch on the arm followed by words of encouragement, “Cori miu, bravo” (“My heart, good for you.”)

Adding the meat and sauté to the pot, I set about measuring and adding the baking soda, pepper, salt and sugar. I picture Nonna rejecting measuring spoons, instead rubbing ingredients in her palm and sprinkling them into the pot, while insisting, “Feducia…feducia!” (Trust, trust!”)

And so I do, as I break out the Italian seasoning and roll it in the palms of my hands, opening up the fragrances locked inside…though I am aware Nonna would feel better about it if I worked with fresh herbs. Once more ignoring the measuring spoons, I grab the hefty chunk of parmesan cheese and begin to grate it over the now slightly boiling epicurean delight. Hey, like I once heard in a movie, “You can never have enough cheese.” I conjure up sparkling eyes and nods of agreement.

With all the ingredients added, I turn down the heat to let the saucy concoction simmer, flavor, and reduce. In my mind’s eye I picture getting a smile and a pinch on the cheek.

Later, as I stir the pot periodically, I imagine her dipping a chunk of Italian bread in the gravy and sharing a piece for me to taste. “Bonu,” she might say, “You did well.”

At this point, I do not have the heart to tell Nonna that when the sauce is ready, it will be ladled over pasta that comes out of a box. I figure with Grandmother still holding that wooden spoon, it is probably best to quit while I’m ahead.
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THE END
Authors Note: Thanks to friends on the Facebook Page: “I’m Sicilian…not Italian…get it right, for sharing interactions they had with their Nonnas.
Please know the Sicilian dialect is making a comeback, but using online dictionaries it is still only loosely translated. Humble apologies for any errors of translation made in the story. They are strictly mine.
Here is the current, three-generational recipe with options:

• 64 oz of cold Water
• 45 oz of either fresh Roma Tomatoes with stems and skins removed, or San Marzano Canned tomatoes
• 2 – 12 oz. cans Tomato Paste
• ½ Large Spanish Onion – Chopped
• 2 Large sections garlic
• 1/8 tsp baking soda
• 1 tsp Italian seasoning or relevant crumbled fresh herbs
• 1/8 tsp black pepper
• 2 tsp salt
• 4 tsp sugar
• 3 Tbsp grated parmesan cheese
• 4-6 browned pig’s knuckles, or country-style pork rib, (or meatless with 20 fresh basil leaves.)

Instructions:
In “A very large Pot” (thanks, Mom) Slowly bring water to a boil adding tomatoes and seasoning.
Lightly sauté onions and garlic, brown the meat, add to the pot
Bring to a boil. (add Basil if meatless) Reduce heat to low and simmer for four hours, stirring every 20 minutes.
Cook favorite Pasta. Add the sauce.
Buon Appetito!

© 2023, Gerald R Gioglio

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