Listen Free: | Apple Podcasts | Pandora | Spotify |
Aaron shares the story of his great-grandmother—“Little Grandma”—and the Sunday tradition she passed down that became the heartbeat of his family. This deeply personal episode explores the power of food, memory, and how culture gets preserved one simmering pot of sauce at a time.
*Shout out to artist Frank Oriti for helping inspire this story!
*We’re creating bonus 7MS-themed content delivered to your inbox, but only exclusively for 7MS listeners who sign up for our quarterly newsletter!
https://www.7minutestoriespod.com/newsletter
*Dive deeper into the 7MS Universe and connect with Aaron on...
*Thanks to my amazing team who've made 7 Minute Stories a top storytelling podcast:
Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
My great-grandmother gave me something—gave my family something—you can’t put a price tag on. And if we do it right, it could stay with our family for generations to come. I think a lot of you will relate to this in some way. I’ll get to it, right after the music. You’re not gonna want to miss this one.
It wasn’t the same at the end of her life. The last couple of years were hard. But she was still sort of with it enough that she could sit with us for a couple of hours. My parents would drop my brother and me off at my great-grandmother’s house. We called her “Little Grandma” because she was this tiny little thing—but she was a force of nature. She had been through a ton. But she exuded strength, wisdom, love, and kindness.
It was really something to watch. So, we’d go over there. She’d be sitting in her chair. My brother and I would be on the floor, watching TV—and no joke, we were watching Quantum Leap. Scott Bakula. What a show.
But it was surreal, because I don’t know if it was dementia, Alzheimer’s, or just age… but she would go in and out of memories. One moment she was with us—she’d say something like, “Hey, this is a great show, right boys?” Or, “You hungry?” The normal stuff. But then a few minutes would pass and she’d suddenly shout at the top of her lungs:
“Joe! I’m gonna throw the spoon!”
She’d say it loud: “I’m gonna throw the spoon!” And I remember thinking… Throw the spoon?
And then this memory unlocked—something my grandfather told me. When he was a boy, horsing around with his brothers and sisters in the house, Little Grandma would take the wooden spoon—the one you stir the sauce with—and she’d throw it like a missile. A ninja star. She had deadly aim. It would crack him right in the forehead.
Different time, okay? But the point was: don’t mess around when your mom says stop. He looked back on it fondly.
So when she’s sitting in that chair, and she’s shouting, “I’m gonna throw the spoon,” that’s what she’s remembering. But Joe’s not a boy anymore. He’s my grandfather. And I don’t even know if she knew we were there in that moment.
But that was just the last year. Even just a year before that—when we were still little kids—and all the years before we were born, the reason we went to Little Grandma’s house wasn’t just to sit and watch Quantum Leap. It was for Sunday dinner. It was for Sunday sauce.
Let me walk you through it.
My brother and I would walk in through that front door, and it hit you like a left hook. The smell. The sound. You could hear the laughing, the stories. Then all the hugs came. The kisses on the cheek. The women in the kitchen, laughing so hard tears were rolling down their faces. The men outside, talking sports, talking business. You could smell the cigar smoke coming through the screen door—just a little bit. It was sweet.
Hands pinching your cheeks, patting your head. “The last time I saw you, you were this tall.” And you’d stand proudly.
And the smell of the food? That started hours before. Little Grandma began cooking three to four hours before anyone walked in that door. It started at the bottom of a giant sauce pan—olive oil, sliced garlic, maybe some shallots. She sautéed them just enough so they didn’t burn or brown, just long enough to become aromatic. It filled the house.
Then came the crushed tomatoes. You could hear them bubbling and boiling. She had two cans. She stirred them with that wooden spoon—that same spoon. Multi-purpose.
Then the basil, the oregano, salt, pepper, maybe a little sugar. Off to her left? A giant frying pan. Inside? Hand-rolled meatballs—pork, veal, beef. Ingredients I can’t even tell you about. Then there were the sausage links and all kinds of meat, caramelizing and crisping on all sides.
Then she'd pour all of it into the sauce. And it would sit on simmer for four and a half hours. The flavors? I can’t even describe them. They danced. It was a damn orchestra. The smell. The anticipation. Your stomach growling.
Then the food. And the silence between bites. Then more laughter. More stories. Then the goodbyes. More kisses on the cheek.
And always—leftovers. So many that she’d have to use a giant rubber band and aluminum foil to seal it. You never left empty-handed.
And then—she’d call you over to the island table. “Come here,” she’d say, curling her finger. She’d open this drawer—it looked like a cash register. No joke. Inside? Hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, fives, ones… and on the far left? A .357 Magnum. Just in case.
Then she’d slide out a twenty—smooth as butter—and hand it to me like it was gold. And she’d kiss me on the forehead.
Even though those Sunday dinners didn’t last forever, they became a memory of my youth. But they didn’t stop. She passed it down—to my father. Sunday sauce. My mother. Sunday sauce. My grandmother. Sunday sauce. My grandfather. My relatives. It kept going.
And it’s funny now, in the age of social media, seeing all this Italian-American content pop up. I used to think everyone did Sunday sauce. I’d go to my friend’s house and say, “Sunday sauce, right? You get it.” They’d say, “What?”
Then you realize—your world opens up—and you’re like, Oh. This is a cultural thing. An Italian-American thing.
That was Sunday at Little Grandma’s.
That was Sunday at Nonna’s.
And now, having my own family—what’s beautiful is that they look forward to Sunday sauce. My sons are taste-testing pasta. My daughter? She recently learned how to hand-roll the meatballs. She’s sautéing them. Smiling. Wearing her apron.
And above her shoulder—on the wall in our kitchen—is a black-and-white picture. We hung it the moment we moved in. It’s Little Grandma. At the island. Serving pasta.
On a beautiful Sunday afternoon.
So many years ago.
