Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

March 15, 1972 –

In honor of the greatest film ever made about pasta sauce and risk-aversion management, The Godfather premiered in New York City on this date.

There are many great religious debates that have raged throughout the world—the Great Schism, the entire plot of The Mahabharata, the Diet of Worms, Henry VIII vs. Pope Clement, Shiite vs. Sunni—and the most virulent: is it tomato sauce or gravy? I’m not that wise a man, and I’m only part Italian, but it’s gravy, not tomato sauce. And if you don’t understand that, then you should just eat at the Olive Garden – you’ve basically missed the whole point of all The Godfather movies.

So, even though this gravy (tomato sauce) is not a mixture of a roux and pan drippings, a person should wager as though it is called gravy, because living life based on that has everything to gain and nothing to lose.

Ingredients

About ½ cup olive oil

1 lb sweet or hot Italian sausage (or a mixture)

1 lb your favorite meatballs (about 16 formed meatballs)

1½ lb beef short ribs (cut into 2-inch pieces—if you’re good with a meat cleaver, great, we’ll talk later; if not, have the butcher do it for you)

1 lb marrow bones (if you can find them—make friends with your butcher; you never know when you may need to dispose of a body)

1 lb lamb neck bones (pork bones will do in a pinch)

1 large Spanish onion, chopped

5 or 6 garlic cloves, chopped

1 12-oz can tomato paste

2 28-oz cans whole peeled tomatoes (preferably San Marzano) with juices

2 bay leaves

2 bottles of Montepulciano (or any dry red wine)

Salt to taste (about 2–3 tsp)

Dried basil and oregano to taste (about a tablespoon each—but God forbid you actually measure it out)

Box of Italian pastries (must include cannoli)

No sugar (yeah, I know your grandmother probably used it, but don’t)

Tools

1 large, heavy-bottomed stock pot (you know it’s the right size if you can fit a severed head in it with the lid closed)

Cutting board

Sharp chef’s knife

Large wooden spoon

Large serving bowl (preferably one with a picture of Pope Paul VI giving a benediction—but “Kiss the cook or else” will do)

Large serving platter (the one with the chip in it—Yes, I know. We can never have anything nice in this house)

The special bowl we use to make Grandma’s meatballs (even though we’re not making her meatballs)

Small bowl to beat eggs (sorry, no joke here—what am I, a comedian?)

DVD of the newly transferred The Godfather

CD of Luciano Pavarotti or Julius LaRosa’s greatest hits

Small empty Welch’s grape jelly jar (if you don’t have one or don’t remember what I’m talking about, use an empty Bonne Maman strawberry jam jar—but don’t tell anyone you used it)

Instructions

Open the first bottle of wine and pour it into the jelly jar. Go into the living room and start The Godfather. Take your first sip of wine and wonder what wedding gift you would have brought Connie. Gauge the distance between your living room and kitchen and adjust the TV audio accordingly (you need to just barely hear the movie over the kitchen music).

Start the CD.

Place the heavy-bottomed stock pot over medium heat. When it feels hot over the top, coat the bottom with olive oil. When you smell the oil, begin to brown all meats on all sides. Start with the sausage (curse in Italian when splattered by grease), and remove; meatballs*, and remove; ribs, and remove; then finally the neck bones—remove those too. (Add more olive oil and sip wine as needed.)

Add onions to the pot and slowly brown, stirring occasionally, for about 3–5 minutes (don’t burn). Add garlic and lightly brown for another 1–2 minutes. Have a bizarre Proustian rush—Grandma smelled like Maja soap and onions cooked in pork grease. Sip your wine slowly. Listen to E lucevan le stelle. Ponder this.

Add tomato paste and stir to coat the onions. Cook until the paste thickens and turns a deep reddish brown, about 5 minutes. Fill the tomato paste can with wine, swirl, and set aside.

Add tomatoes, one can at a time, slowly crushing them by hand (imagine they’re the hearts of your enemies). Add bay leaves, oregano, and basil. Stir well. Add the wine/paste mixture into one empty tomato can, top off with more wine, swirl to clean, pour into the second can, swirl, and pour all into the pot. Bring to a low boil.

Call in a kid (yours or the neighbor’s) to throw the cans in the recycling. Playfully swat them on the behind—but not too hard, or Child Services may get involved. Have another glass of wine and check on the movie. Lower heat and simmer. Now comes the big controversy—do you partially cover the pot or not? Purists cook uncovered (they enjoy cleaning or have a kitchen slave). Partially cover until the sauce begins to thicken.

Wonder if Luca Brasi “sleeps with the fishes.” Bring your refilled jelly jar to the TV and find out. Don’t forget to come back and stir the gravy. Life’s not worth living if you burn the gravy.

After about an hour, add the ribs and marrow bones (if using—secret tip: marrow adds unbelievable depth and cuts acidity, so no sugar needed). Wipe down the stove from splatters. Tear off a piece of Italian loaf and taste the gravy. Hurry back to the movie – you don’t want to miss the hit on The Godfather or Richard Castellano’s Italian cooking tips.

An hour later, cut sausages into quarters and add. Wipe down the stove again. Start thinking about pasta. I prefer fresh tagliatelle or spaghetti, but go with ziti or rigatoni if you must. Stir that gravy. If it’s too thick, add water (from your jelly jar—no one’s watching). Curse in Italian when the gravy splatters again. More bread, more wine (maybe a piece of cheese or dried sausage), and back to the film.

Hopefully, you return in time for “Leave the gun, take the cannoli.” Be glad you remembered to buy cannoli. After another 30 minutes, stir the gravy, add meatballs, stir again. Turn off the heat and cover the pot (residual heat will continue cooking the gravy—and heat a small Cape house in winter).

Put water on for the pasta—salt the water or be haunted by your father-in-law’s ghost. Watch the end of the movie.

Come back and realize half the water boiled off. Add 2 more cups and bring to a boil. Restart the CD with The Godfather theme. Turn the gravy back on. Season with salt, and add ¼ cup grated cheese (secret #2). Add pasta to boiling water and cook to desired texture.

Drain in a scolapasta (colander). Be proud you know that word.

Use a slotted spoon to transfer meat to the serving platter. Ladle sauce over pasta.

Call your family to the table, open the second bottle of wine, and mangia. (Have plenty of grated cheese at the table.)
Meatballs (Probably Not Like Your Grandmother’s)

I’m not your grandmother. I’m not even your grandfather. I haven’t spent nights worrying about rent while my no-good husband is out gambling, or made homemade pasta for my no-good sister-in-law who’s running around with Frankie the Butcher. I don’t have decades of internalized rage to perfect a meatball recipe—but I’ll share one anyway.

Ingredients

1 lb ground chuck

1 egg

Some crusty Italian bread

¼ cup Italian breadcrumbs (about 3 tbsp)

Fresh parsley

Grated Parmesan cheese

Fresh garlic – you can never have too much!

Coarse black pepper and salt

Pinch of salt

1 tsp dried basil

Put the meat in the bowl—the one your grandmother gave you instead of your cousin (the handsome one who now gives elderly divorcees “erotic massages” in Miami). Add seasonings and cheese.

Tear up two pieces of bread, moisten with a little red wine, and add to the meat. Add half the breadcrumbs and mix just until combined. Don’t overmix. If it’s not coming together, add more breadcrumbs. Still, don’t overmix. Imagine a slap from Grandma if you do.

Wash your hands, calm your nerves with a glass of wine.

You should get about 16 meatballs (if you’re OCD, divide the meat in half, then again, and again—you get it). Lightly moisten your hands, roll the meat into balls. Don’t compress too tightly or they’ll be tough.

Put aside until ready to cook.