I’ve been a dedicated student of Italian culture for a few years now, and while I may be food-motivated, I have learned that appreciating a culture is more than just cooking authentic recipes. At risk of being trite, to truly honor Italy is to embody the Italian way of life. 

I’m sure I could dot this page with blanks and “insert different country here” as so many cultures are alike in their deep-rooted traditions, especially where food is concerned. But I continue to stress the value of quality ingredients in Italian cooking since the recipes are so bare-bones. Just as making a meal with generic brand pasta and storebought sauce is lackluster, so is eating “Italian” dishes without learning about the other customs that create the fabric of Italian society. To speak plainly, if you just eat pasta a lot, you aren’t really getting the point. 

Those close to me know that I am very passionate about living sustainably and, though easier said than done, I try my best to put my money where my mouth is. Look under my Christmas tree and you’ll find dozens of presents with a collection of mismatched ribbons and bows. It pains me to buy single-use holiday wrap, so I spend the year snipping ribbons off of various containers (seriously, I just stopped Matt from tossing a box of chocolates so I could save a turquoise ribbon). While, as a child, I lamented when my parents’ Christmas gifts weren’t color-coordinated like a Martha Stewart display, I now appreciate that my mother instilled resourcefulness in me. I’m proud of my annual harvesting of ribbons and I enjoy the puzzle of finding ways to match non-holiday bows with each present, even though the final result may not be Instagram-worthy. 

My point here is illustrating the lack of climate-consciousness in our culture, particularly in the modern U.S. Yet, if you dig into the backbone of nearly any other culture, you’ll find it is inextricably linked to (here’s a wine term for you) terroir.  

Italians have remarkably strong regional pride that will rival that of New Yorkers, and even Texans, any day. They have full menus of area-specific dishes relying on local ingredients. Truffles from Tuscany, buckwheat pasta from Puglia, figs from Sicily. The slow food movement originated in Italy, and modern consumerism is the antithesis of this concept. To eat authentically Italian, one must eat locally-sourced, seasonal ingredients. In other words?

No tomato sauce in the winter. 

It’s sad, but true. Tomatoes are a summer symbol, happiest in the hottest of weather. Without modern technology, they wouldn’t grow in winter, and we wouldn’t be able to eat them while staring at a Christmas tree. This is too depressing for most Italians, so even before grocery chains and cargo planes existed, they adapted. My dad tells stories of his Puglia-born grandfather, Pasquale, setting up a canning station in his Flushing basement. Pasquale and his wife, Chiara, would ready troughs of tomato puree (passato di pomodoro in Italy), sterilize cans, and fill shelves of canned tomatoes to get them through a cold New York winter. Matt’s grandparents, Italian-Americans hailing from Campania and Trentino, followed the same process up until stopping in their old age. If canning was the fall tradition for thousands of Italian-American families in the 20th century, why do so few Americans do it today? My guess is the readily-available cans of Cento or San Marzano at the supermarket. Convenience trumps tradition. 

I would be a very bad Italophile if I gave into the temptation of convenience. Not to mention, mass-produced jarred sauce and storebought tomatoes just don’t cut it for me. I am a regular at the local farmers’ market and after eating deliciously plump fresh Roma and Heirloom tomatoes, I’m completely turned off by the anemic, firm options at Trader Joe’s. I’ve also grown to adore what my husband and I dub “pomodoro fresco:” simple sauce made from boiled-down whole tomatoes. While I love a Southern-Italian “marinara” (we don’t say “gravy” in this house) for lasagna or meat sauce, pomodoro fresco’s light, refreshing quality is unmatched. 

I couldn’t bear being deprived of my favorite sauce for an entire year. So, I channeled my inner nonna and cleared a shelf in my garage fridge. I planned to hoard pomodoro fresco for the winter. We began by asking “our guy,” farmer Juan Valencia of Virginia-based Valencia’s Produce, for a box of tomatoes. He gave us a box of “seconds” (imperfect tomatoes) for twenty bucks. I scoured my cabinets for every possible glass jar I could find, readied two stockpots, and started chopping. 

The whole process took about two hours, between chopping the tomatoes, composting the cores, and cooking the pulps down to liquid. I added some frozen basil, originally harvested from our herb garden, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Then I let the sauce cool and ladled it into the jars (leaving room for expansion!). Into the freezer they went, awaiting a cold night when all I want is some cozy pasta and red sauce. 

I was a little worried the sauce wouldn’t be my best work…I had never prepared two stockpots of sauce at once and thought, perhaps, the result would be under-seasoned. When Matt and I returned from a trip to France earlier this month, we quickly defrosted a jar and, I confess, picked up some fresh pasta from the store (I was not about to make pasta after sitting on a plane for 9 hours). 

When we tasted the five-minute dinner, we both just laughed. The dish, so humble I didn’t even snap a picture, was phenomenally delicious and nutritious. We could have bought boxed pasta and picked up a jar of Rao’s for a dinner completely lacking in flavor, but this was a post-travel meal and it was GOOD. I felt like my ancestors were smiling down on us, baggy sweats and all, because this is what it’s all about. Tomatoes from a few miles away, basil from my deck, and a little pasta equal one fulfilling meal. 

I wish I’d taken a photo of my bowl. It wasn’t photogenic, but it was so genuine. I follow a Roman food blogger, Sophie Minchilli, who is constantly sharing Instagram stories of bites from around the city. To me, the food always looks mouth-watering, but I often wonder if some Americans look at her photos and think, “that doesn’t look good.” Sophie visits off-the-beaten-path trattorias that serve ladles of pasta with a little sauce in plain white bowls and zero garnish. I can imagine the flavor bursting out of those plates, but the pasta doesn’t look like a Bon Appetit article. It looks like it came out of someone’s kitchen. That’s exactly what our dinner looked like, and it was one of the most enjoyable meals Matt and I have ever eaten at our table. I’m very glad we decided to “hibernate” this winter. Next year, I just need to buy more Mason jars.