Sunday Gravy

When I married an Italian, I knew this day would come.

When I saw the piles of ripe tomatoes displayed on the kitchen countertops this weekend, I knew this day had arrived. And my heart rejoiced.

He cut those tomatoes in half and arranged them in baking dishes, cut side up. He drizzled extra virgin olive oil all over them and sprinkled the glistening half-orbs with finely chopped garlic and onions. Then he threw on salt, pepper, oregano, and tarragon (I think).

The pans went into a hot oven and stayed there until the entire house smelled fanfuckingtastic.

And they looked like this:





We (yes, I helped at this point) slipped the tight skins off and dumped the fragrant innards into a bowl where they got mashed up a little until being transferred to the blender.





After the blenderizing, he dumped it all into a big pot, added some dry white wine and let it simmer, simmer, simmer. Apparently, and I did not know this, there are a few flavors in a tomato which are only brought out by alcohol. Or something like that. Bottom line, alcohol = good.

Then he smothered these golden slabs of eggplant with the tomato sauce, sprinkled it with cheese, and baked it up a bit. And then I died right on the spot from sensory overload.



This man is dangerous. Very dangerous.