Nana's Sunday Tomato Sauce Recipe

If you grew up like I did—the oldest child in an Italian-Catholic family in Northern New Jersey—you know Sundays meant one thing: sauce simmering on the stove for hours, filling every corner of the house with the smell of basil, sweet tomatoes, garlic and onion sizzling in a generous bath of olive oil.

Sunday gravy wasn’t just dinner. It was ritual. It meant sitting down together and slowing down.

If you know me personally, you know I don’t really cook. I’m not going to lie to you—I struggle with sensory experiences. I’m often racing through ideas and projects, and it’s hard for me to pause long enough to let something simmer. Stillness doesn’t come easy.

But almost two years since she passed, I finally brought myself to cook her sauce again — down to the ridiculous amount of sugar (sorry Nana) and I realized that ritual has shaped me more than I ever knew.

My brand and my product line today was largely inspired by her. Not just by her recipes, but by the way she wrote them. Disorganized. Imperfect. Scribbled in messy cursive on the back of mail-in stationery or scrap paper. Unfinished. Often left up for interpretation.

It made me realize I didn’t want to just make “nice” things. I wanted to create everyday tools that feel warm and human—nostalgic pieces that hold memory and meaning, and help people pass along something small but important. A grocery list. A love note. A recipe.

I began creating my food themed stationery to hold onto her memory as she began the process of dying, and ultimately, holding onto the little tradition I had growing up after she passed.

Today, after I deciphered her cursive, I pulled out the ingredients, and began to follow her recipe. I started noticing things I hadn’t before. Why didn’t she add garlic? How much olive oil was “enough”? And how she would fill the tomato paste can with water and soak up every last bit.

I texted my dad:
“No garlic??”
He replied:
“My father didn’t like it. Or maybe it was her uncle. So she left it out. It just stuck.”

She did that often. Cooked for people. Adjusted things. Left meat out for me. Made extra for all the neighbors on our block. Wrote “For Mel [birthname redacted]” at the top of my version — I still have yet to find that copy in the piles of recipes she left behind.

It reminded me of something I come back to in my art all the time:
It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to work for everyone.

That’s how she lived. And how I try to make.

This is the sauce that built me.
It’s not the best I’ve ever had. But it’s exactly how I remember it.

Ingredients

• 2–3 tbsp olive oil (I love Brightland)
• 1 large onion, diced
• 3–4 cloves garlic, thinly sliced
• 1 28 oz. can whole peeled San Marzano tomatoes
• 1 6 oz. can tomato paste
• 1 heaping tsp kosher salt, plus more
• 1/2 tsp sugar
• 2 tsp dried parsley
• 1/4 cup fresh basil, finely chopped
• 1/4 cup fresh parsley, finely chopped

Instructions

1. Heat 3 tbsp olive olive in a heavy-bottomed pot over medium heat until shimmering.
2. Add 1 onion, diced, and cook until starting to turn transparent. Add a pinch of kosher salt and 3–4 cloves of garlic, thinly sliced, and cook until garlic and onion are fragrant and starting to brown.
3. Add one 28 oz. can of whole peeled tomatoes and reduce the heat to medium low. Retain the tomato can, add to it one 6 oz. can of tomato paste, and fill the can with hot water. Stir to combine and set aside. Simmer the tomato, onion, and garlic mixture on medium low for about 30 minutes, stirring occasionally to prevent sticking.
4. Add the water/tomato paste mixture, 1 tsp kosher salt, 1/2 tsp sugar, 2 tsp dried parsley, and 1/4 cup each of finely chopped fresh parsley and basil. Stir to combine, and simmer for up to an hour and a half.
5. Check and stir every 20–30 minutes, until sauce is thick and reduced. Taste for seasoning, and enjoy with your favorite pasta!

 

If you’re looking for a way to bring a little kitchen-table comfort to your workspace, I hope my small-batch stationery can offer that. Just like her sauce, they’re made to be shared, loved, and passed around.

And if you make the sauce? Tag me or send a photo. I’d love to see it bubbling on your stove.

—

With love,
Mel