I’ve spent years cooking by instinct. A splash of this, a dash of that, tasting as I go and adjusting until it feels right. I still do that with this sauce, if I’m being honest. Even now. Switch it up to your taste and your family’s taste, because you’re the ones eating it.
This marinara takes about three hours, which sounds dramatic until you realize it doesn’t actually ask much of you. It simmers quietly while life happens around it. Dishes get washed. Someone wanders into the kitchen to ask what smells so good. You taste it too early (I def eat way too much bread taste-testing this). You taste it again anyway.
Sauce isn’t just about food. It’s about the family you share it with. And just like family, sauce needs love, patience, and attention. My family absolutely loves this sauce, which is how I know it’s worth the time.
I’ve learned a few things making it. Don’t rush the onions. Be gentle with the garlic. Stir it often, because if you don’t, the bottom will burn and ruin everyone’s mood. Deglaze the pan with a splash of red wine or whatever you have around the house, because flavor likes attention. And if you ignore the pot for too long and burn something anyway, the fire alarm will absolutely narc on you.
This isn’t a rigid recipe. It’s a starting point. And honestly? Burnt garlic holds grudges.
The Sauce (Eventually)
Ingredients
- 3 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
- 1 yellow onion, diced
- ½ head of garlic, minced
- 1 can San Marzano tomatoes
- 1 can diced tomatoes
- ½ jar Italian passata
- 1 generous glob tomato paste (technical term: glob)
- 1 tbsp dried basil
- 1 tbsp dried oregano
- ½ tbsp onion powder
- ½ tbsp garlic powder
- 3 bay leaves
- Salt & black pepper, to taste
- 1 can of water (to rinse every last bit of tomato from the cans)
- Optional but encouraged: a splash of red wine (or whatever you’ve got around)
How It Comes Together
- Heat the olive oil over medium heat in a large pot. Add the onion and cook until soft and translucent, about 5–7 minutes. Take your time here. Do not burn them. The fire alarm will remember.
- Add the garlic and cook just until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Burnt garlic holds grudges. Lower the heat if you need to.
- Deglaze the pan with a splash of red wine (or something close enough) and scrape up anything stuck to the bottom. That’s flavor, and you earned it.
- Stir in the tomato paste (that generous glob) and let it cook for 1–2 minutes, stirring constantly, until it deepens in color and starts believing in itself.
- Add the San Marzano tomatoes, diced tomatoes, passata, and the can of water. Rinse those cans—waste nothing. Stir to combine.
- Season with basil, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, bay leaves, salt, and pepper. Bring everything to a gentle simmer, then reduce the heat to low.
- Let the sauce simmer for about three hours, stirring often so nothing sticks or burns as it thickens. This is passive cooking. You don’t need to hover, but you do need to check in.
- When it’s ready, remove the bay leaves (don’t forget them…your family will notice and silently judge you forever), taste, and adjust. The sauce will tell you what it needs.
How We Eat It
Serve this with your favorite pasta and some sourdough garlic bread (recipe to come). Eat it with people you love, or at least people who will appreciate a three-hour sauce.
Don’t burn the onions. Don’t burn the garlic. The fire alarm will thank you.
Some meals are about nourishment. Some are about tradition. This one is about letting time do its thing and feeding the people who matter.
Be like the sauce. 
