Homestyle
Why I Choose Imperfect Food, Shared Stories and Sugo That Doesn't Match the Recipe Card
Recently, my husband’s aunt passed away. Last week we traveled to the town where we were raised to attend a family funeral. An old fashioned one-with a church service, cemetary burial and lunch at the church afterwards. We had ham, funeral potatoes and an assortment of vegetables and salads. It was simple, and far from gourmet. With each bite I thought of the parishioners that made this food for us. It brought deep comfort in the way only food made with love can bring.
After our meal, a long dessert table drew the attention of everyone. It was filled with assorted pies, cakes, cookies and brownies. I almost passed on dessert. While everyone knows my love for it, it was the middle of the day on a Monday. I keep myself on a regimented meal plan now to heal from an autoimmune disease. But that day, I loosened the reins and splurged on a slice of Caramel Pecan pie. I am glad I did. I have been dreaming about that pie ever since.
Even in our darkest moments, food brings comfort. It’s that simple, familiar food, such as funeral potatoes, that envelope us like a warm, long hug we didn’t know we needed.
I recall when my grandma died. It was one of the worse moments of my life to watch my beloved second mother’s soul leave her body. It was my first real experience watching someone die, and I was traumatized by it. The next few days were a blur. I don’t even remember what I did other than curling up in my mother’s bed, crying for hours.
Yet I remember vividly making food for the church luncheon we had following the funeral.
Our family gathered in my grandma’s kitchen and we made her Lenten specialties. Her funeral fell on Ash Wednesday —so we made dishes like Tuna Spaghetti and Kidney Bean Salad. We argued over it, as only Italians do—loudly and with passion. We sent my cousin out for more tuna to appease those that felt the sugo (sauce) did not have enough flavor. We compared it to my grandma’s sauce, knowing with a deep sadness she would never cook in her kitchen again. Yet her food brought us together all the same, and it brought comfort in its familiarity.
In that little kitchen, together, we began to heal. We realized that our tears would dry, and we could laugh again. We had experienced a deep loss, but she had left us with priceless memories. We would cook the food my grandmother taught us all to cook, and every time we did that we would be made whole again. We came to know that even when we are separated, we are bound by the food.
This was confirmed when I went to my cousin’s house for dinner a few years back. We ate ravioli and gnocchi with sugo, drank wine and told stories of our childhood and our grandma’s food. It felt like we were back in her kitchen, even if the view was different. The stories, and the ravioli, were a balm for the scars on our hearts.
Despite my grandma leaving us over twenty years ago, her food is kept alive through us. Some recipes we could never replicate. Others have been a work in progress. More, tweaked for modern times. Still when I reach for the sugo recipe it’s not because I have forgotten it. It’s because when I see her handwriting, I hear her voice. “Now watch Grandma, rinse your cans with water.”
This recipe card doesn’t convey how closely I watched my Grandma make sugo, and every time she made it a different way. Sometimes there was basil, sometimes not. Often, a hunk of parmesan. One time a dried packet of spaghetti sauce. . . .yes really. She loved to experiment. It didn’t matter what she did, it always tasted the same.
My cousin makes his ravioli a little differently than I do. My mom makes sugo her way. We follow my grandma’s recipe, as we saw her make it. The differences turn out the same result—just like in her kitchen.
If family had a taste, mine would definitely be pasta with sauce.
(Yes, we really do add cinnamon and nutmeg. Just try it.)
The opposite of our homemade food is gourmet food.
My first real experience with gourmet food was back in the 90’s when I started working full time and took clients to dinner. We ate at a private club at which my boss was a member. There were several courses served over several hours. Dessert was a sorbet served in a frosted glass lily, with a real lily—both of which we were encouraged to take home with us. The only reason I remember the sorbet is because I took that frosted lily home with me and it became a part of my kitchen for a long time.
I have eaten many “gourmet” meals since. I have friends who take great joy in eating at Michelin starred restaurants. I don’t deny anyone their pleasure in either cooking gourmet or experiencing it. However, for me, I prefer the slice of Caramel Pie served at a church luncheon, and my grandma’s sugo. Food that I suppose is referred to as “homestyle” more than anything else.
Homestyle reminds me of cooking shows from the 80’s and 90’s. I recall watching the Frugal Gourmet with my grandma. We’d scurry to write down the recipes to try in our own kitchen. Then Food Network launched and my world cracked open a little more. My grandma simply loved Emeril. I think she was a little sweet on him and his use of “Bam!”. For me, though, it was Ina Garten. I felt so comforted by her food. It was food I wanted to make over and over again. Food I wanted to serve my own family.
There is a stark difference between Instagram and Tik Tok cooking videos, and my beloved old cooking shows. It reminds me of the difference between gourmet food and homestyle. Cooking videos are staged entertainment. Perfect food set to music. Just like gourmet food—it’s for art’s sake more than anything.
I saw a behind the scenes from a creator—her “kitchen” counter was a board on the floor in front of a window, her pan placed temporarily there to get a shot of her sprinkling salt on the food. I can’t replicate that. Nor do I need to try. There’s a place for these videos. They aren’t meant to comfort me. Instead, they are there to entertain me, and they do.
I am not a food video creator. I tried. I hated it.
Remember, I am a big fan of imperfection.
Ah, maybe that’s why I don’t feel comfortable making cooking videos. They are edited to perfection. Perfection doesn’t fit me anymore. Instead, I am in the season of returning to myself.
This reminds me of Margot in The Menu when she tells Chef she doesn’t like his food and wants to send it back. She asks him to make her a cheeseburger and fries—a food he used to make when he was happy and himself.
A completely homestyle meal.
Homestyle food is my way of remembering who I am. I am a person that believes the food matters. Not as content, a perfect recipe reel or an expensive spectacle. It matters for connection, comfort and legacy.
I prefer holding a weathered recipe in my hands over watching a perfect video. There’s nothing like curling up with a good cookbook. And I have plenty.
I make “imperfect” food. Food to be made over and over again. Food that you still think about a year after eating it.
I like to help people cook in the way my grandmother did—become so comfortable cooking that what you do no longer matches the recipe card. A handful of this, a Cool Whip container of that. Yet it tastes the same. Every.Single.Time.
Every Monday I make pasta. Today I am making my Grandma’s sugo using a jar of yellow tomato sauce canned by my mother this summer. I am sure the sauce will still be practically perfect in every way.
I used to host cooking classes. The kind where women bonded over sharing stories while eating real food they created—that typically tasted better than it looked. I dream of hosting old-fashioned cooking classes again. Nothing fancy, just real people who come together to enjoy connecting over food. Wandering the garden. Sitting at a long table. People who believe food is important because it comforts and heals in all its glorious imperfection. Maybe it’s time to do that again. Would you join me?
I write about food, memory and slow living here at Marygold Journal. If this resonates with you, subscribe and stay awhile. Better yet, share with a friend so we can connect together.