You say tomato…..

… I say sauce.

So without further ado, in loose chronological order with a dash of humor is our family tomato sauce making day. Enjoy.

My son acclimated quickly to the idea of dunking tomatoes and putting them in the bowls.

" So I just take from the water and put it in the bowl? Ok Nonno….."

Chop ’em up….mainly by me. 8 bushels worth.

My mother with her wicked one handed slicing technique. Scoop, position, slice. All with one hand. Momma brings the ruckus.

Fire by wood, the old way

Fire by Gas – Welcome to the modern age

Mom’s wooden spoon, not just for ass whoopin’ any more. 🙂

Cookin’ them up….

Draining Process

Ok, here we have the cooked tomatoes being strained out of excess water before we process them through the machine.

The Machine, smuggled from Italy 15 years ago. Hallelujah.

First pass, notice the thick sauce sluicing down the slide. I just want to jump in. Mmmmmmm.

The Director at work. Notice the look of quiet determinism on his face, the vanguard of tradition.

2nd pass biproduct goes right into the waste bin. As learned in 1989 when my nonno insisted on passing it a 3rd time and the perforated tube collander busted. We don’t do 3rd pass, it just isn’t worth the risk.

Look at all that sauce!

Jars being prepped, fresh basil from my father’s garden being stuffed in the wide mouth mason jars.

A club of basil, freshly pulled that morning.

And yes, before you ask he has an outdoor granite kitchen with working plumbing. I know, I know…..

All the jars we used for the sauce, I washed them the night before as I always do. Best part was that it went by so fast, I guess I get better with each passing year.

And it’s on…….

None for you!

Jars inside the drum to the top and loaded with water. I hate tightening the jars on wide mouth lids. Just hurts my good arm.

Loaded and just missing one thing……………………………..what could it be?

FIRE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now the lone shepherd watches over his children as they mature.

Little Man watching it all from the safety bunker.

My father’s garden – flat long string beans. This row is 50 feet deep.

Honestly, what are you going to do with all these beans dad?

Clowning around the day before – Chin up! Elbow down! Get your free load!

My dad, watching my son use a shovel.

Pride.

"Daddy says there’s buried treasure here. So…..I dig"

That’s a rap!