Meadow Soprano taught the world how to pronounce gabagool,
just like the Olive Garden taught me how to pronounce manicotti.
I didn’t know the word capicola until I was twenty,
and my great-grandmother made manigot,
so did my grandmother,
so did my mother.

Preparing tomato sauce on Mother’s Day seems an insufficient act,
except that it’s not sauce, it’s gravy.
The smell of it permeates this small apartment and recalls
countless memories: languid Sundays, holidays with family,
perfunctory reprimands for dipping bread too soon into the pot
followed by, “how is it?”
“It’s good. It’s ready.”

We are never quite ready to make our own sauce,
even the most accomplished chefs among us.
For one, there is no recipe:
pinched amounts of Italian seasoning and basil,
enough water to clean the cans of crushed tomatoes,
garlic, more garlic, always more garlic,
simmer until the children grow unruly,
and serve them to hear the day’s first staccato silence,
peaceful pandemonium.
There are only so many permutations
of who can pass the ricotta and parmesan to whom,
but for a while it seemed endless
even though it is the fundamental fact of life
that permutations dwindle, then grow,
involve us, then don’t.

There is no difference in preparation now
(pinched amounts of Italian seasoning and basil)
except that each minced clove of garlic has become a quiet tribute
(it is our small traditions that can slip unnoticed through time).
We cannot help but prepare tomato sauce
with the ghosts of our matriarchs
and call it gravy
like our good Italian mothers did.