Long before I was alive, my grandparents, uncles and father went to my great aunt Concetta’s house for a tradition that only Italians might consider sacred work. At the end of each August, they would spend a few days cutting, boiling, crushing and pureeing tomatoes. “Jarring tomatoes” meant a year’s worth of sauce on the shelf at their disposal.

When I was younger, I only enjoyed the fruits of this labor. The process took place in New York so my family and I weren’t always able to make the trip. When my grandparents moved to Rhode Island, the tradition came with them. Thank god. Their garage transformed into the perfect layout for jarring activities. Who else has a fully functional stove in their garage? There’s large pots big enough for a person to fit in and burners so powerful they could set a small country ablaze.

Just as I thought 2020 couldn’t get any worse, we had to cancel this year’s jarring weekend. A lot of the farms had really bad crops due to the lack of water and the excess heat. Hardly any good tomatoes anywhere. Honestly, what the fuck. Canned tomatoes from the market are the most repulsive thing to me, and I know and don’t care that it sounds outlandish, but there is no way a person can go from a lifetime of homemade tomato sauce to what they carry in the market. I know there are other ways to make fresh sauce, but it’s just not the same.

I remember only once or twice in my life that a year’s crop wasn’t good and we ran out. My father made a gravy with canned tomatoes. I took two bites and pushed my plate away. No thank you. I do not eat it when I’m out at restaurants, and if I’ve ever eaten a gravy at your house, it was only out of politeness. Sorry. (This excludes you, Gina).

The Process

On Friday, the setup begins. We wash and rinse all the equipment, set up the empty jars with a few basil leaves, set the machinery where it needs to go and test run it to make sure it’s all working properly. One year the conveyor on the tomato press broke. I forgot how we were able to get one in a pinch, but I do remember panicking a little. These little mishaps can ruin your whole operation. It’s been a running joke that I don’t even help out because for a few years I was busy studying, going to school and working all the time. I didn’t show up until lunchtime. Ya girl needs plenty of sleep for optimum tomato cutting capability and a full stomach for energy. Ok?

Saturday we usually start around 8am. My grandmothers, mother and I cut and squeeze excess water out of the tomatoes and put them into the large pots where they sit and cook on the burners. Cutting the entire batch of tomatoes, usually 20 bushels, takes about a day and a half. My brothers and father (with the help of some family friends) use long wooden spoons to stir the boiling tomatoes.

When the tomatoes cook well enough, potfuls go to the press, managed by Uncle Mike. As he empties the tomatoes into the machine, it squeezes and separates all the seeds and skins out. Into a bigger pot, the pureed sauce goes onto the stove and boils down some more. Poppy is usually in charge of this, as you don’t want the sauce to overcook. It has to be just right.

When it boils down enough, the sauce is poured into the mason jars with the basil leaves at the bottom. Brother Marc puts the lids on and starts running the jars into the house. He arranges them under a comforter to stay warm and cool slowly.

My favorite time is when we break for lunch and dinner. For lunch at noon there is cold cuts, fresh Italian bread, pasta salad, homemade wine, antipasto! On Sunday, I’m sure you already know, we have a big Sunday Dinner to celebrate being finished. Once that last lid is placed and the jar is put under the comforter, it’s a solid victory. At dinner, every so often we can hear the lids on the jars make a popping sound. It’s music to our ears because it means they have begun to heat seal themselves. Another year of deliciousness awaits.