Jennie Guida

Jennie

keeping her with us

Jennie Guida, my grandmother, was born Jennie Sorrentino in West New York, New Jersey in 1899. She married Antonio Guida, who came to New York from Massaquano, a village near Naples, and it was reportedly his friend Vincent who taught her how to cook this sauce.

They settled in the Bronx, where my father was born, and where our family gathered often for big meals. Three generations of our family have grown up eating Jennie's tomato sauce. Jennie died in January 2003, at age 103. Making this sauce, just how she taught me, is one way that I keep her with us. My earliest memories include visiting my grandmother and grandfather on a weekend or holiday, along with my father and sister, and often my aunt, uncle, and cousin. The smell of that sauce drew everyone straight from the front door to the stove downstairs. It never seemed odd to me that my grandparents had an entirely separate kitchen/dining room set up in their basement by the backyard entry. The house's original kitchen was used as a sort of office-with-refrigerator, the oven a storage compartment for dishes and candy. It was impossible to wait till dinner was served. As we stood around the simmering pot, dipping bits of bread and stealing the occasional meatball, my grandmother beamed. "Good?" she asked, as we nodded vigorously, our mouths too full to respond. "No sugar!", she said, grinning from ear to ear. Dinner was a leisurely event. As we enjoyed our pasta, along with dishes of sautéed mushrooms, broccoli rabe, artichokes, and other treats, my father and my uncle discussed politics or sports. My grandmother filled us in on the neighborhood gossip, and we kids were always encouraged to tell about what we did in school. Later in the evening, I'd sometimes sneak back downstairs to the dinner table, where my grandfather sat with his newspaper, peeling an apple. He wasn't a talkative guy, but as we sat there quietly, he offered me slices of his apple, and I felt like we bonded. My grandfather passed away in 1980, when I was 10. My cousin and her husband have three gorgeous grown children now, and my aunt and uncle spend about half the year in Florida. My sister's moved to Florence, and my father lives in Manhattan. We're a small family, so it's quite special when we do get together. In the meantime, I am grateful for the love of food that I inherited, and I think I keep my grandmother close to me with every dish I cook.

About Kristen: Kristen grew up in New Jersey, and has spent the past several years as a writer/researcher on international human rights issues. She now lives in England with her husband, John.

		Jennie keeping her with us Jennie Guida, my grandmother, was born Jennie Sorrentino in West New York, New Jersey in 1899. She married Antonio Guida, who came to New York from Massaquano, a village near Naples, and it was reportedly his friend Vincent who taught her how to cook this sauce. They settled in the Bronx, where my father was born, and where our family gathered often for big meals. Three generations of our family have grown up eating Jennie's tomato sauce. Jennie died in January 2003, at age 103. Making this sauce, just how she taught me, is one way that I keep her with us. My earliest memories include visiting my grandmother and grandfather on a weekend or holiday, along with my father and sister, and often my aunt, uncle, and cousin. The smell of that sauce drew everyone straight from the front door to the stove downstairs. It never seemed odd to me that my grandparents had an entirely separate kitchen/dining room set up in their basement by the backyard entry. The house's original kitchen was used as a sort of office-with-refrigerator, the oven a storage compartment for dishes and candy. It was impossible to wait till dinner was served. As we stood around the simmering pot, dipping bits of bread and stealing the occasional meatball, my grandmother beamed. "Good?" she asked, as we nodded vigorously, our mouths too full to respond. "No sugar!", she said, grinning from ear to ear. Dinner was a leisurely event. As we enjoyed our pasta, along with dishes of sautéed mushrooms, broccoli rabe, artichokes, and other treats, my father and my uncle discussed politics or sports. My grandmother filled us in on the neighborhood gossip, and we kids were always encouraged to tell about what we did in school. Later in the evening, I'd sometimes sneak back downstairs to the dinner table, where my grandfather sat with his newspaper, peeling an apple. He wasn't a talkative guy, but as we sat there quietly, he offered me slices of his apple, and I felt like we bonded. My grandfather passed away in 1980, when I was 10. My cousin and her husband have three gorgeous grown children now, and my aunt and uncle spend about half the year in Florida. My sister's moved to Florence, and my father lives in Manhattan. We're a small family, so it's quite special when we do get together. In the meantime, I am grateful for the love of food that I inherited, and I think I keep my grandmother close to me with every dish I cook. About Kristen: Kristen grew up in New Jersey, and has spent the past several years as a writer/researcher on international human rights issues. She now lives in England with her husband, John.


Jennie's tomato sauce (gravy)