Life From Scratch Read Online Free PDF

pot over medium-high heat, fry the onions in olive oil until soft, sweet, and golden brown. Add the beef and continue browning.
Next, pile on the canned tomatoes and their juices, the tomato paste, nutmeg, and allspice or cloves, salt, and pepper. Finally, chop the mushrooms and add them and their cup of liquid to the pot. Give everything a stir and bring to a simmer. Top with raw sausages—just plunk them in whole (Alfred said so). Cover and keep the mixture at a gentle bubble for about 4 hours.
Remove the sausages and, when cool enough to handle, slice into half-moons. With a wooden spoon, break up the tomato chunks, if there are any, and stir the sausage back into the sauce.
At this point Alfred covered the sauce and left it on the counter overnight. Times have changed, so I must recommend refrigerating the sauce for 8 hours—more if you have the time. During this rest, the flavors will mingle and deepen.
Though the sauce keeps for about a week in the fridge, I like to freeze it in 2-cup portions so I can enjoy the bounty over several meals. Frozen, it will last at least 6 months.
It is simply wonderful on top of hearty pasta, like spaghetti or rigatoni, with a liberal heaping of freshly grated Parmesan. Alfred liked it best over ravioli. I find it delightful in lasagna, too, though Alfred never did this himself.
Makes about 1 gallon

CHAPTER 4

    Just Dess e rts
    I N THE FACE OF OUR NOISY I TALIAN HERITAGE , the living room kitchen in our new apartment in Jamaica Plain felt too quiet. There should have been a grandmother bustling among us, chiding in Italian, bumping elbows, laughing too loud. The only times Mom managed to capture the energy of Grammie’s kitchen was when Connor and the twins, Tim and Grace, came to visit.
    Mom made a big fuss before each of our siblings’ yearly weeklong visits, especially when it came to planning what we’d eat. One autumn she ushered Michael and me into an orchard on the outskirts of Boston to pluck fallen apples for Michael’s birthday pie. He always requested it, since Mom wouldn’t let us get those “slabs of poison-soaked garbage” we eyed at the supermarket. I must have been about five years old, Michael almost seven.
    “They’re bruised,” we’d cried in dismay when we saw the misshapen fruit around us. But Mom reminded us that soft apples make the best pie. I asked if we had to pay for them. “Not if they’ve been on the ground,” she said. “What if animals had scavenged them? Who knows what damage they’d do? Tell you the truth, we’re doing the farmers a favor keeping pests off their land.”
    I figured she was probably right—and anyway, I liked having the orchard all to ourselves. When Connor, Tim, and Grace arrived, we had a bowl of apples and a box of candles ready for the pie.
    As with all our visits, we took a while to get settled. Our siblings would load their backpacks and sleeping bags into Mom’s small bedroom; she’d sleep on the living room floor near Michael and me. Though Michael was happy to see his older brothers and sister, he often acted out to sustain Mom’s attention. He didn’t just cry; he wailed. He could kick up a full-blown scene in a matter of seconds, without regard to where we were. Once on the other side, though, he lit up with an expansive, dimpled grin, ready to roughhouse.
    Though Michael and I were skinny, our half siblings had the added height of freshly sprouted teenagers. The boys had Mom’s earthen hair, while Grace’s bloomed goldenrod. As soon as they put down their bags, the tiny apartment resounded with the ruckus of five kids with a license to run, play, and do as we liked. Not only could we get our clothes muddy, but we could also track the dirt in. “That’s what baths and mops are for,” Mom reasoned, “so live a little.”
    I’m not sure if Connor, Tim, and Grace found our lifestyle a relief or disconcerting. I know they hated to be so far from us. The feeling was mutual; we were always trying to