It was after six by the time we all got home from the farm on “tomato night,” after gathering all the necessary ingredients from Sap Bush and the valley farm stands. Bob and I faced down the day’s unwashed dishes, two hungry kids, a mountain of tomatoes in need of immediate attention, and a hefty pile of onions, garlic and herbs.

 

 

Before we could even turn our attention to the night’s canning project, we faced the ordinary daily chores of simply cleaning the kitchen and putting supper on the table. The sun was going down fast, and as my ordinary bedtime slipped by, I surrendered to the fact that sleep hours would be few. I fed the kids (a meal heavily featuring tomatoes, of course), while Bob finished dishes and began washing the mountain of ripe, red fruit.

 

Soon I joined him in the kitchen, madly slicing onions, chopping garlic and herbs, pureeing tomatoes, doling out the ingredients among all my kitchen pots. And in the midst of pureeing all those tomatoes, craving the rest that comes with winter, I had one of those “ah ha” moments. The sun had set, Saoirse was lying on the couch doing her math, Ula was hanging upside down from one of the living room chairs, the door to the screen porch was open, and the sound of the crickets was coming into the kitchen. And my “ah ha” was that this is my life. This is what I wanted. There is no sense wishing the task were completed, because these are the delicious moments I will recall long into my future.

 

I took a quick break, grabbed Ula by the hand, and we went outside to see the moon rise. It was a deep orange, the first harvest moon of the season. We gazed at it, then she went inside to draw a picture of it on this date on the calendar.

 

I watched that lovely moon a few more moments, then returned to the kitchen myself. I didn’t look at the clock, I didn’t yell at the kids to go to bed. Soon enough they were tired, and Saoirse, seeing we had a long night ahead of us, led her sister upstairs to read stories.

 

The sauce slowly began to simmer down from a pale pink to a deep red, and as I stirred, Bob and I talked about whether it would be easier to just buy canned tomatoes for the winter. We wonder that every year. But this year, I am writing this down. I am recording this memory. And in doing so, I am hoping that when I open a jar of tomato sauce this winter, I will taste more than the bounty of this land. I will taste in my mind the memories of the night we made our sauce, of harvest moons and contented children, of a peaceful partner working across the counter from me, my teammate as we endure our tomato marathon, of crickets and cool August nights and wet dew on my bare feet when I slip outdoors to rest my eyes and breath fresh air before returning to the kitchen, my nose clear, so that I can smell afresh the progress of the sauce. …and return to these sweet labors.

Tomato sauce

(reader beware: While I carefully write and test and re-test the recipes in my meat cookbooks, this recipe is merely my best recollection of what it is that I do in the kitchen each August…when I am not writing cookbooks, I can be a bit casual about my notes…)

1 bushel of tomatoes
18 large onions
18 cloves garlic, finely chopped
6 T olive oil
Chopped fresh herbs, 1 1/2 cups each of basil, oregano and parsley
2 tablespoons plus 1 1/2 teas salt
5 bay leaves
3 teaspoons ground black pepper
1 1/4 teaspoons crushed red pepper
3 teaspoons sugar
Citric acid

Sauté onions and garlic until onions are clear. Add the herbs. Wash tomatoes, core, and remove any bad spots. I don’t bother removing the skins. Puree in a food processor. Add to the onions, garlic and herbs. Add the bay leaves, black pepper, crushed red pepper and sugar. Simmer several hours, until thickened to your liking.

Wash approximately 17 quart canning jars. Wash rings and lids, add them to a pot of water and heat until simmering. Add 1/2 teaspoon citric acid to each jar. Pour in sauce, cover with lids and process in a pressure canner for 35 minutes at 11 lbs of pressure.

 

 

This post was written by Shannon Hayes, author of