I made spaghetti again today.
I’ve had small groups of first-year Notre Dame students from my residence hall over for dinner. And so, I find myself in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, simmering. Cooking has always been something I enjoy—not the quick meals, not the fast fixes, but the kind of cooking that takes its time. The kind that fills a house with the smell of onions, garlic, tomato paste, and herbs, simmering low and slow all day long.
But today, somewhere between chopping those onions and adding in the tomato paste, it struck me: there’s more to this than the sauce itself. More to it than just the food on the table.
As I stood at the stove, I thought of Pat and her family. They became a second family to me years ago, back when I was teaching at Iona Prep. Their kitchen was a kind of home for me. Pat’s Italian cooking seemed effortless, like she’d been born knowing how to make a feast appear. And of course, Felicia was welcomed into that clan too. Cooking always brings me back to them.
Then I thought of Anne, my mother-in-law, the one who taught me this very recipe. I still see her standing behind me one afternoon as I browned the pork for the sauce. “Are you sure it’s
browned enough?” she asked. “Yes,” I answered. “Are you sure?” she pressed. And, well—she was right. I let it brown a little more.
Cooking also brings me back to friends. Like Jay, a classmate from grad school, who came over with his spouse Deb when all our kids were still small. I handed him the task of making the meatballs, and he asked, “How do you do it?” I think my answer was, “Umm… just smash it together.” Not exactly helpful. But he figured it out.
I thought of my own children, too. They grew up with this sauce. I’ve made it for them more times than I can count. And then, at some point, they started helping. Liam took the lead on the meatballs first, then Maeve after him. I remember how, without fail, Liam would get up from the table as we were finishing our salads to put the spaghetti into the boiling water—always just at the right time.
Cooking also calls to mind people I didn’t expect. Like Scott, my RA during my first year at Sorin. He was gluten-intolerant, and because of him I learned how to adapt the recipe so everyone could enjoy it. Thinking of him makes me think of the whole staff from that year—faces, conversations, laughter that comes back to me while I stir the pot.
And then there’s my brother-in-law Jim, who has the gift of making everybody laugh. I picture him at the kitchen table on Cross Creek in West Virginia, pinned against the wall, grinning as he explains that he can’t possibly get his own second helping because he’s trapped behind the table. Which, of course, brings to mind a familiar phrase in that kitchen: “Can someone pull out the table so we can eat?”
And that’s just one day of cooking.
Other days, other memories drift in. Different people, different moments. Sometimes whole seasons of life come flooding back just from stirring the sauce.
That’s the thing—I’m never really alone when I cook. The slow rhythm of chopping and stirring opens space for memory. The aroma rising from the pot makes the past present again. The long day of simmering is enjoyable not only because of the taste it produces, but because of the company it brings me.
Cooking connects me. To family. To friends. To the people who’ve shared my table over the years, and to those who never will again. The past folds itself into the present, stirred together in the same pot I’ve stood over for more than thirty years.
And I like to think that when I cook, I’m surrounded by a cloud of witnesses—people who shaped me, loved me, laughed with me, taught me, fed me. They’re here with me still, every time the sauce begins to bubble.
And for that, I am deeply grateful.
Music: "Jungleland" by Bruce Springsteen
