I stood in my father's garden one late summer evening, watching my three kids dig in the dirt with toy bulldozers (推土机). I had driven up to my parents' house that afternoon in a fit of desperation. My husband was working a double shift, my twins hadn't napped, and I was one misstep away from a complete breakdown.
"Come up," my mom said, "Let's rest for a while."
As the day of temporary relaxation drew to a close, I wandered along Dad's once-neat garden rows and noticed the tomato plants Dad had planted.
"Roma tomatoes, the kind for sauce. Remember when your mom used to make sauce?" my father said.
I hadn't thought of it in years actually. It was a recipe passed from my Italian immigrant great-grandmother down to my grandmother and then my mother. And that's where it had stopped. Though I liked cooking, I didn't want to waste much time on the dish. Why should I simmer tomato sauce all day when I could make different kinds of dishes?
Dad gave me an idea. "I'm going to make sauce," I said. My father raised a skeptical eyebrow but grabbed some boxes and told the kids to start picking. The twins threw tomatoes like softballs to each other as the youngest begged to join me. Everyone was crying at one point, and I almost gave up on my grand scheme. Yet something inside me fought back, a deep-seated fancy for finding the link between the recipe's owner and me.
As last, I successfully finished my sauce and it was approved by my parents. The efforts I made with those boxes of tomatoes gave me a sense of accomplishment. Each crank of the handle each slice of the knife, each stir of the stockpot was a prayer for comfort and confidence. Like most things that are worthwhile, the mess was part of the process.
