This past Sunday, like just about every other Sunday, I got up early to start making dinner. For as long as I can remember Sunday dinner with my family has always been an all day affair. My mother before me and my grandmother before her would always start the meal in the early morning; most often before the rest of the family was even awake.
I always do the meatballs first; mixing, shaping and frying. Then I move on to browning the rest of the meat. The chicken legs and thighs; then the pork ribs and sausage; last the beef ribs.
After all the meat is browned they are added to a large pot of tomato puree along with most of the browning oil (it's flavor), some cheese rinds (either Parmesan, pecorino or locatelli whatever is available) and some salt, pepper and garlic powder. I let this cook for hours and then right before it's time to eat I add some fresh basil.
In our house we call this "Sunday gravy". I'm not going to get into the whole gravy vs sauce debate. It is what it is and in our house it's gravy.
A funny thing happened this past Sunday as I was making the "gravy". My husband was in his office with the windows open (yes, it's hot enough here in Phoenix to have the windows open). He heard a car pull up in front of the "for sale" house across the street. He heard the Realtor asking his clients if they smelled something good? "Yes," they replied "it smells like Sunday gravy"
My husband called me over to the window but by the time I got there they were gone. Who were these people in the middle of Phoenix that knew about Sunday Gravy...and please let them move in.