One late summer evening, I stood in my father's garden, watching my kids dig in the dirt with toy bulldozers (推土机). I had driven up to my parents' house that afternoon feeling upset My husband was working day and night, and my twins hadn't napped. I was one step 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 took a walk around Dad's once-neat garden rows and noticed the tomato plants Dad had planted.
"Roma tomatoes, the kind for sauce. Renember 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 (慢慢地煮) 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 big plan. Yet something inside me fought back, a deep-seated fancy for finding the link between the recipe's owner and me.
At 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 (柄), each slice of the knife, each stir of the pot was a prayer for comfort and confidence. Like most things that are worthwhile, the mess was part of the process.
