My last memory of Aunt Dantina, DT as she was called by
those closest to her, was in the middle of nowhere Arizona, an odd location to
find a couple of Italians from Chicago, but Mom was a gypsy and DT needed a
place to go die. I had left a snow-sparse Missouri to spend the holidays with
the family. Like usual, there was no Christmas Duck or Turkey. While
celebrating the holidays, we celebrated our heritage and that meant sauce. This
year, unlike years passed, when I'd sofa surf and Mom and Dantina would make magic in the kitchen, DT was going to pass-down tradition, she was going
to teach me to make the family sauce. Mom shuttled us to the grocery store; DT shuffled
through the isles calling out ingredients; I followed behind her carefully
stacking them in the cart while taking scribbled notes. She was so frail, barely
able to make it down and up without needing a breather, but she was able to find the strength to lap the store in search of each, required, element. When we arrived back at
my mom’s house, DT shuffled off to her room for a little downtime before the
process began.
She emerged from her room with the same tired shuffle,
but there was a definite smile in her eyes. DT loved to cook and knew she was
creating a moment that I would never forget. She took out a large sauce pan and
placed it on the stove, saying it needed to be hot to draw out the flavor from the
bones. Into the pot went a ham hock, a lamb shank, and a couple bone-in pork
chops. DT let the meat sear before tossing in the soffritto, the Italian holy trinity. After the onions sweat down,
she dropped in a healthy amount of fresh garlic, and then came the sauces and
pastes and stewed tomatoes. I poured as she watched carefully, providing
splash-reduction tips. Up to this point, useable notes had been captured: 2 of
this, 6 of that, one of those, but when it came time for the herbs and spices
everything ended in taste. This to taste. That to taste. These to taste. She
stood there like an old witch building her brew: adding, stirring, tasting…repeat.
When she was satisfied, she moved the spoon towards me to offer me a taste. It
was perfect, and my face showed it. She placed the lid back on the pan; turned the
temp down; handed me the spoon; told me to stir it every 30 minutes; and she
shuffled off to the living room to sit with my mom. She passed away a couple weeks later. The Cancer had taken her fight.
The following year, in remembrance of my Aunt Dantina, I
tried to recreate the sauce for my friends. I followed each hand written step
with some adlibs. It was wonderful, but it was not DT’s. It was not her.
