When John Tomarchio was a young professor in Boston University’s Core Curriculum program, he often stopped by my (Kate’s) office. Sometimes he needed my support as program manager (my first job out of college), and sometimes he wanted to talk about food. John was super kind and I learned from him how to be a grown up and also how to be a good human. More to the point, I learned how to make red sauce.

Although the sauce as he explained it only had five ingredients, it must have taken him twenty minutes to explain the process, because he wanted me to get it right (and also he was passionate and possibly a bit theatrical). Following his careful instructions, I’ve always gotten it right. I hope now that you will, too!

Red Sauce

My understanding of John’s method is colored by the habits I’ve formed over the years—his lesson was more than twenty years ago. So I want to honor him for the life lesson but not (mis)represent this as his exact recipe, which I know it is not. Here is the original’s grateful descendant.

1 tablespoon olive oil
5 cloves garlic, smashed and peeled
3 tablespoons tomato paste
1 28-ounce can crushed tomatoes*
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1 pinch red pepper, optional

Heat a large saute pan over medium heat and add the olive oil once water sizzles when it hits the pan. Add the oil and give it thirty seconds to warm up as well, then add the whole-but-smashed cloves of garlic. In my view, what you do next is the most important step to the quality of the final sauce.

Cook the garlic slowly and gently and Do Not Scorch the Garlic! If the pan seems too hot, remove it immediately from the burner to cool off. You want the oil to barely simmer around the garlic, so that the cloves slowly turn a golden brown. This usually takes me three to five minutes.

Once the cloves are golden brown, add the tomato paste, salt, oregano, and optional dried red pepper. (John didn’t use tomato paste, but it adds a depth that we like. He also didn’t use oregano—he added fresh basil at the end. But we often find ourselves without fresh basil.) Stir for a minute, then add the tomatoes. Simmer for five or ten minutes. You want the sauce to cook down and thicken, but not become too thick. If it cooks until it becomes too thick, you can add a little pasta water. When you think it looks right, turn off the stove and taste a bit. Does it want more salt? How about some freshly ground pepper? If it’s too acidic, try adding a scant teaspoon of table sugar. (If you always use Pastene canned whole tomatoes, it will never be too acidic. Of course, home-bottled tomatoes also work beautifully.) I can’t buy Pastene now that I live in the West, and it’s terribly sad. In fact, this post made me investigate my Pastene shipping options. The only place I can find them is the manufacturer, located in Massachusetts, and I’d love to support them. But shipping is pricey. I have a twelve-pack loaded into my shopping cart and my credit card number entered—will I push the button to purchase?)

 Add to 1 pound freshly cooked, al dente spaghetti or linguini, top with freshly-grated parmigiano-reggiano, and serve. Or use this for lasagna or pizza sauce, a spaghetti squash gratin or calzone. Options abound, each of them delicious.

*John advised me to use whole peeled tomatoes with the reasoning that they use blemished tomatoes for the crushed and diced cans and the best quality ones for the cans of whole tomatoes. At some point I veered away from his advice, thinking the chopped were easier to deal with. But something has been brewing in me recently, and when making this batch, I decided definitely that in future I will avoid chopped tomatoes. They don’t break down no matter how long you cook them!