By: Eleonore Brunelle
It’s late afternoon. You’re trudging past the snow banks that bunker your home in Gatchell, a neighbourhood in such close proximity to the nickel mines of Sudbury, Ontario, that a fine powder dusts your rooftop. The trek will be worth it tonight; tonight is the first spaghetti night of the week. You enter through the side door, battling with the screen that closes on your backpack before you can fully step through. The warmth of sizzling beef, allspice, nutmeg, and diced tomato mixes with the skin-splitting air from outside in a moment of intersection. Starchy pasta water vapour floats faintly in the kitchen. Welcome home.
This is a meal your mom has been making since you were small, before you learned to enjoy its squishy tomatoes. A true staple of the Brunelle household, a recipe that was inspired simply by her joy of cooking, and always made with its recipe in hand, perhaps out of insecurity. Your mom would be given a cheque by your father—a miner—to budget for your family’s monthly supply of food. The cheque would contain $100, maybe a little more. This meal was cost-effective yet nutritious, and she would make enough in case any of your friends appeared in the doorway that evening. When my parents got married, they were gifted a joint cookbook of recipes assembled by the in-laws. My Nanny stores all of her recipes on paper in a tin card holder in her kitchen. One of the cards had her spaghetti sauce recipe, which she donated to the cookbook. My family eats this hearty meal bi-weekly, not including the consumption of leftovers. We have caesar salad and buttered baguette on the side. The sauce hasn’t changed since it first simmered on my Nanny’s stovetop, with the exception of the odd handful of chocolate chips sprinkled into the sauce on occasion by my mother to cut down the acidity. After your meal, all full and rejuvenated, you slide your hockey skates onto your stick and collect your gloves. It’s dark outside now. You’ll be at the outdoor rink around the corner until your fingers turn white and your feet are so sore the walk home is precarious. Directions
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Ingredients
Feeds at least a dozen
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