Killer Tomato Sauce

"Taste this." 

Rick held out a wooden spoon smothered in sauce,

cradling the underside with his free hand.

"That's heaven."

Laney licked the spoon clean.

"When I die, bury me in a vat of that."

-- Emily Liebert, You Knew Me When

Plastic snakes, rubber eyeballs, applesauce, carrot sticks and a cookie 8-25-14

"It's pretty easy to cook pasta,

but a good sauce is way more useful."

-- Emeril Lagasse

Around here, the tomatoes in my garden have been fattening and reddening a whole lot faster than I've been eating them.

Make no mistake, I do love tomato sandwiches. But at this rate, I'd have to eat a dozen tomato sandwiches a day just to keep up with my bumper crop.

So yesterday, while I listened to the Indians game on the radio, I did what I do most every summer when the vast multitude of tomatoes ripening in my garden, on my patio table and on my kitchen counter threaten to take over my house and home.

I gathered them up and made my mean marinara.

I call it my "Killer Tomato Sauce."

It's a day long process -- pick 'em, peel 'em, seed 'em, chop 'em, cook 'em, stir 'em, cook 'em, stir 'em ... etc.

Killer Tomato Sauce 8-25-14

It takes hours until the pan full of watery red liquid cooks down and reduces into a thick, bubbly, glossy, rich, fragrant, tomato-y sauce. I add fresh homegrown basil, olive oil, salt and pepper, fresh Parmesan and a splash of hot sauce.

No garlic.

No onion.

I know.

But shut up.

It's my sauce, so I'll make it my way.

Onions and garlic don't agree with the delicate digestion around here, so why in Hell would I make a sauce we couldn't enjoy? Waddaya think, I'm stoopid?

Any self-respecting Italian would blanch at my brazen disregard. But hey, I'm Belgian and Irish. At least I put tomatoes in my marinara. If I made sauce according to my cultural heritage it'd just be a big vat of beer.

Now wait just a dadgum minute.