An Italian tradition lives on in Nonna’s kitchen.
Photography by Nadia Graziani
Towards the end of summer, the Graziani troops gather in one of the most scarily efficient areas of the city: my grandmother’s (Nonna, in Italian) basement kitchen. It’s “Pomodoro Day,” that special day when every good Italian family gathers to prepare precious jars of tomato sauce for the rest of the year. Nonna runs this operation like a drill sergeant, although it’s a drill sergeant singing Italian songs from the ’40s reminding me that I used to sing these songs when I was three and why don’t I do that anymore? Sigh.
It’s not really a day, though: it’s actually a weekend event (sometimes longer) spent peeling, seeding, blanching and boiling until all 16 bushels of tomatoes are done. That’s right: 16 bushels! Picture the floor of your garage completely covered with tomatoes—I’m not exaggerating.
Prepping the tomatoes is only part of a well-choreographed procedure starting with a big boil in a huge pot. They’re ultimately separated into jars with basil leaves: some have strained tomatoes, and some have tomato chunks. Finally they all get loaded into the canning pot for sealing and sterilizing. Everyone has their assigned roles in the tomato production line hierarchy, but of course, according to Nonna, no one does anything to her standards.
This is traditionally a family affair, and it’s rare for “outsiders” to be involved in the process, but you, dear reader… you’re cool. Have a look.
Why go through all this when there’s fairly inexpensive good-quality sauce readily available at the local grocery store? Because you just don’t do that. You use the tomatoes from the 100 mason jars in your cantina that you got from Nonna’s, and that’s it. Punto e basta.
Tomatoes laid out in the garage to finish ripening.
Just a fraction of the 16 bushels we prepared.
My grandfather, Franco, happily peeling away.
My grandmother, Ada, singing while she works. She’s always singing something.
Nonna shows the tomatoes who’s boss.
Three generations (L-R): My mother, Linda; my grandmother; and my youngest sister, Amy.
(Originally posted on mississaugalife.ca. The print version originally appeared in Spirit of the City/Mississauga Life, issue 15, 2012; the PDF of that is available here.)
Leo Graziani 