The Sauce on the Stove

Every Sunday of my childhood looked like this.

This poem is a tribute to my grandmother, whose love was stirred into every pot of sauce, sewn into every pair of slippers, and felt in every quiet, chaotic, perfect moment around the table. If you’ve ever had a Sunday that smelled like garlic and felt like home, this one’s for you.

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There’s a big pot of sauce on the stove,
In an old worn pot — decades old.
Handed-down recipes, lovingly shared,
Nourished our bodies from a family that cared.

In our house, it’s Grandma who’s boss –
Some might say gravy, but Grandma says sauce.
A loaf of fresh bread sits next to the pot;
Tear off a piece and dip it while hot.

For Grandma, her day had a quiet start,
While Grandpa sat still, doing his part.
A tissue tucked in Grandma’s brassiere,
To dab the sweat that would soon appear.

As morning turned noon and we all arrived,
Silence turned loud, no senses deprived.
Garlic and onion perfumed the air,
While we played outside, staying near.

The table is set with Parmesan cheese,
Ready for soup, salad, pasta – yes, please!
Grandma’s big salad takes center stage,
It’s a family favorite at every age.

Hearty minestrone fills every bowl,
While Grandma stands ready, on food patrol.
Aglio olio chicken joins the parade,
Everything perfect, and all homemade.

The kids get up to clear all the plates,
Dessert is ready – a treat Grandma creates.
Grandpa now sits in his favorite chair,
His dessert delivered – it’s good anywhere.

Our Sunday tradition is always the best,
With bellies full, it’s now time to rest.
My uncle naps in a chair nearby,
While Dad yells at the TV – a play goes awry.

Grandma’s still busy – she’s measuring feet,
Winter is coming, and she won’t miss a beat.
Slippers for everyone, so cozy and warm –
In Grandma’s house, this is the norm.

She works through the day, then crochets at night,
Her hands so skilled, they move by moonlight.
That Sunday sauce, a simple affair,
Speaks of a life spent serving with care.