Sweet Smells of Youth

Margaret Stabilit Leister
"Mom-Mom"

(Don't miss the recipe at the end ;-)

My childhood home routinely bore the signature of my Italian heritage. The air was laden on a daily
basis with the aromatic mixture of oregano, garlic, and sweet basil,,,lots and lots of garlic. Every Saturday morning, as if compelled by her ancestral legacy, my mother would rise before dawn to lean over the steaming black stockpot, stirring batch after batch of her made-from-scratch Old Country marinara sauce. She'd feed slabs of fresh pork and beef through the hand grinder and I would perch on the red metal stool to get a closer view of the mixture as it fell into the beige crockery bowl below. After adding that perfect blend of seasonings, fresh bread crumbs, raw eggs, and a dash of very cold water, Mom would pinch off a small portion of meat. She'd roll it in the hollow of her cupped palms, then form and stack meatballs by the dozens.

Promptly browned in the sizzling 14 inch iron skillet, the meatballs were set aside to drain on trays lined with old newsprint. It was at this point she united the meat with the sauce, ladling it into marked and dated freezer containers which were then lowered into the chest freezer to experience rebirth at a later date.

My brother and I tried not to get caught dipping bread chunks into the remaining sauce. Our tongues caught errant red drops as we'd quickly fold and force the bread into our mouths. One taste only made us want more. Of course, this thievery was an accepted ritual, albeit unspoken, because Mom would leave torn pieces of freshly baked bread lying untended on the old oak cutting board to be "found" by the rest of the family.

If caught, the thief would smile through a mouthful and mumble "s'good, Mom," rushing off to do whatever a young sauce-snatcher might otherwise be doing. We eventually gave up the pretense and gathered around the steaming sauce pot, collectively dunking, dripping, and mumbling our reviews as Mom looked on in mock anger. Soon, with a wink, she would join in, even sprinkling some grated Parmesan onto our bread.

Spaghetti sauce was not the only Italian staple on Mom's mind each weekend. She was often elbow-deep in unbleached flour as she kneaded and rolled out pan after pan of pizza crusts, sweet cinnamon rolls, cloverleaf dinner rolls, and homemade twisted pretzels. She would welcome my help to punch down the bowls of dough and taught me to roll, cut, twist, and sweeten each batch as dictated by the recipes. The heavenly yeasty scent just heightened the anticipation. The baked goods which we weren't going to eat immediately were packaged and frozen alongside the meatballs and sauce.

Although I believe my Mother's compulsion to keep the larder full was a direct offshoot of the years she spent growing up during the Depression, I know there were other reasons for those marathon cooking sprees. It allowed my mother more freedom in planning her time during the week and gave the family the fresh food she felt was best. I also believe she equated food with love and nurturing, and as her parents had before her and their parents before them, she took pride in knowing she could provide so well for her family.

The memories are as sweet as her baking. We spent so much time around the kitchen work areas and dining room table. Conversation flowed, laughter was hearty, and we made those breads and Italian dishes disappear in short order.

S'good, Mom. Thanks.

And here is her recipe: