Life · Comfort Food
Sunday Sauce, and Other Inherited Rituals
No one ever sat me down and taught me the sauce. I just absorbed it, one long Sunday afternoon at a time, standing near enough to the stove to notice.
It's the kind of recipe that resists a written form — a pinch here, a taste there, a sense for when the tomatoes have gone from bright to deep. Writing it down would flatten the parts that matter most.
The sauce was never really the point. The Sunday was.
What gets passed down in a kitchen isn't always a recipe. Sometimes it's a rhythm, a Sunday shape to the week, that outlives the specific dish entirely.
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