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pots of her famous potatoes and spaghetti, tossing the classic Genovese combination with red sauce while Michael and I played with her rotary phone or ran through her parsley beds.
    Mom also brought us to visit the Italian relatives on the fringes of our family tree—ones who wore gold coronos (squiggly horn pendants), white patent leather shoes, and pompadours. I never really knew where the bloodlines ran together, but I lapped up the culture eagerly. Nothing was done quietly; there was even drama when washing the dishes. I’d ask Michael: “Are they all mad—or crazy?”
    Mom, who couldn’t understand the Italian cacophony, would hear us whispering, and offer, “Isn’t it great?! I could listen to them all day.”
    One of our favorite excursions was to Cousin Alfred’s place. When we’d ask how we were related to him, Mom would always say, “Who cares? He’s family.”
    Alfred always wore a bow tie. He was impossibly old, with memories from the late 1800s when the ice cream scoop, cotton candy, and stop sign were invented. Tall and lanky, Alfred bent slightly when he walked, as though he were perpetually rolling out dough. But his voice didn’t shake, nor did his hands. Mom said cooking kept him young, and she might be right: Alfred lived 104 years.
    His signature dish was meat sauce and ravioli. But we knew better than to ask him how it was done. “Waddya mean, how’s it done?” he’d say, clucking his teeth. “Watch, watch. That’s the only way to learn anything.” Alfred’s sauce started weeks before he ever picked up a spoon, when he mail-ordered dried porcinis from Italy. The actual cooking took two days: one day to brown, stir, and bubble, and one day to rest. As the wild mushrooms, hamburger, and sweet sausage mingled with the onion and a crush of tomatoes, we all trekked down to the large plank table in his cellar to watch him make the pasta.
    After rolling the dough into two thin sheets, Alfred spread one with pork and spinach filling, and then topped it with the other. He used a special rolling pin with a raised grid to crimp dozens of ravioli in one pass. Even though I was just four years old, Alfred let Michael and I drive the ravioli cutter through one of the crimp marks the pin had left behind.
    The ravioli was an even more involved recipe than the sauce, taking upwards of three days. But Alfred prepped the filling and dough before our arrival, leaving us to delight in the magic at the end of the journey.
Cousin Alfred’s Meat Sauce
“Meat sauce” doesn’t do this recipe justice. It’s filled with nearly a dozen sweet Italian sausages, the umami of dried porcinis, and the best tomatoes Italy has to offer. There’s a richness that comes from using first-press olive oil and sweet, sweet onion (while any onions will certainly do, Alfred specified Bermuda because their natural sugar helps balance the sauce) .
Although I have a tendency to add garlic to my sauces, in traditional Italian cooking either onion or garlic is used—never both. Alfred pureed the tomatoes with a food mill and ground the meat with a meat grinder. His sauce was an exercise in love, a taste of the Old World. Here is my modernized version, which relies heavily on a wooden spoon and pre-ground meat. But I like to think the flavors remain as hearty as he intended. Although it might seem ambitious to make a gallon of sauce, Alfred taught me to freeze leftovers in 2-cup, freezer-safe containers for future meals; not only is it handy, but it saves effort in the end .
• 1 ounce dried mushrooms (porcinis, if available)
• 2 sweet Bermuda onions, chopped
• ½ cup olive oil
• 1 pound lean ground beef
• Three 28-ounce cans San Marzano whole peeled tomatoes
• Two 6-ounce cans tomato paste
• 2 generous pinches nutmeg
• Generous pinch allspice or cloves
• Salt and pepper
• 10 sweet Italian sausages
Soak the dried mushrooms in one cup recently boiled water. Cover and set aside.
In a large Dutch oven or heavy-duty