The story of Sunday Sauce is a tale of two grandmothers—two very different women who, when I take a step back, I feel make up the yin and yang of me.
My Grandma Angela was my father’s mother, and she was my fancy grandmother. She loved leopard print, and big gold jewelry. She smoked Parliaments in her kitchen and was always watching Game Show Network. (My obsession with watching old episodes of Match Game ‘75 on YouTube comes from it always being on in her living room.) I wouldn’t say she loved to cook, but she had a handful of recipes that she made without fail. As a matter of fact, in a twist that my father loves to invoke, my mother’s Sunday Sauce recipe has more of her influence than my mother’s mother’s influence. Angie’s Chicken with Vinegar Peppers is also favorite here at the Tuber/Del Russo house. (DelTuber? Is there something there?) That said, the majority of my memories of my Grandma Angela are of her in her kitchen.
The same is true for my Grandma Margie, my mother’s mother. When I think of her, I think of her at the stove in any number of kitchens—the house she lived in before my grandfather died, the condo she moved to after where she’d make me sandwiches when I visited, my mother’s house where she’d come to cook Christmas dinner for 45.
Close your eyes and imagine an Italian-American grandmother. That was Margie. There was nothing that thrilled her more than having her family gathered around a table. She was quick-tongued and hilarious. She wore a special apron on Christmas Day that made her look like Mrs. Claus. Her favorite lipstick was Revlon Persian Melon—I remember the green tube it came in. She called me Malooey and taught me how to make so many delicious things. The majority of the recipes in this newsletter series are from her, because she started cooking at a very young age and never let up.
It breaks my heart every single time I cook that I can’t call either of them up and ask them about their recipes. In the background, this newsletter has been a bit of an emotional journey for me, because neither of my grandmothers are here to shepherd me through the process of their meals. It really tortures me sometimes, because I wish that I’d been more invested in this part of my culture enough to connect with them through it when I was younger. So maybe this newsletter is a bit of penance on my part—a way of trying to keep them alive through food.
This week’s recipe did just that. These stuffed peppers were a staple of my Grandma Margie’s table—something we ate at her house so many times growing up. I felt emotional cooking it, especially as it bubbled on the stove, because it filled the apartment with a scent that reminded me of her. It was like she was in the kitchen next to me, just how I always wish she would be.
And maybe that’s how we keep the people we’ve lost alive. Each of my grandmothers live in these recipes still—in the handwriting that’s scrawled across each card, in the smells that fill the room, in the love I felt when I take my first bites. It’s a beautiful version of an afterlife. It’s one I feel lucky to be able to share.
INGREDIENTS
5-6 Cubanelle peppers, depending on size
1 lb ground beef
Salt + pepper, to taste
1 Tbsp garlic powder
1 Tbsp parsley
2 Tbsp parmesan
1 egg
1/4 cup breadcrumbs
1 handful of long-grain rice
2 carrots, diced
1 medium onion, diced
2 stalks celery, diced
1 can Hunt’s tomato sauce
Olive oil
INSTRUCTIONS
Mix the ground beef, salt, pepper, garlic powder, parsley, parmesan, egg, and breadcrumbs together until combined. Add in your rice and mix.
Cut the tops off of your Cubanelles and clean out the insides, removing any seeds. Gently add your meat mixture to the cavity of the pepper, taking care not to break or rip your peppers. If there is leftover meat mixture, you can form them into little football-shaped balls and set aside with the Cubanelles.
Add a healthy drizzle of olive oil to a heavy-bottomed sauce pot. Saute carrots, onion, and celery until soft, about 7 minutes.
Put the peppers and any leftover meat footballs into the pot. Pour in your tomato sauce, along with enough water so that the peppers are about 80% covered. Simmer, covered, for an hour or until tender.