Savory, Slow-Cooked Pork Stew for #SundaySupper

When I think of comfort food, I think of rich flavors. Sauces. I think of intoxicating smells that conjure fond memories of growing up. I think of coming home from college and eating my mom's home-cooked meals. And I think of something I can put in a pot or a crockpot and let cook all day while we lay around in our pajamas and watch movies all day. I do NOT, for once, think healthy. (Although, this recipe is not unhealthy.)

After years of practice, I am proud to say I have mastered the art of the stew. And after a long internal struggle, I have finally learned to embrace the warm glow of the crockpot. I used to consider the crockpot to be lazy cooking. I considered the people who used them to be a sellout. But nothing can cook something slowly and bring out the flavors in certain recipes better.

Wow, am I glad I got over myself because this meal is just amazing. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it. The family loved it. And it makes for great leftovers too. It takes a little bit of preparation the day before, but I included substitutions to make it even easier.

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Every Day is #SundaySupper, Especially with Perfectly-Grilled Pork Chops

Some of my most vivid, vibrant, and most cherished memories of childhood are of the six of us - mom, dad, my two sisters, my brother, and me - sitting around the table, saying grace and eating dinner. This nightly tradition was rarely missed. My mom made sure of it. And her meals were always fabulous. None more than most Sundays, when the aroma of the sauteed garlic and braised beef and pork for the gravy for that day's pasta dinner would fill the house from early in the morning. It's something I do every few months. Make a big pot, and freeze portions for later meals:

It's called "gravy" when you add meat to it

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Happiness Is Being Italian

"Life is a combination of magic and pasta." - Federico Fellini


Picture it... Sicily... 1955...

Remember the "Golden Girls?" Estelle Getty's character would always regale her friends with anecdotal stories from her homeland? With all due respect to Sophia Petrillo, not all stories of Italian pride have to take place in the Old Country.

There we were, the three of us, enjoying Sunday dinner as a family just like the countless times I remember growing up. The one difference: it wasn't three in then afternoon. The peanut in her highchair, pulled flush against the dining room table, flanked by me and my wife. All of us with a heaping, steaming, sweet-smelling bowl full of Italian goodness sitting in front of us: rotini, ravioli, pecorino, sausage, garlic.

It was arguably the best pot of gravy I had ever made.

It's called "gravy" when you add meat to it

I watched as my daughter shoveled bite after bite after bite into her mouth, without hesitation or negotiation. She was happy, dancing, humming. I wasn't focused on eating my own dinner because I was getting so much enjoyment out of watching my daughter eat hers. I turned my attention back to my own plate, looked down, and just shook my head. In amazement.

"What's wrong?" asked my wife.

"Nothing," I said. "I'm just content."

It was then I realized that my favorite thing about myself just may be the fact that I am 100% Italian-American. We are a dwindling breed. None of my first cousins can even claim that distinction. Neither can my daughter.

There are people out there who hear "Italian" and picture a loud, crude, mafioso slob. I'm not offended by these people. I feel sorry for them. What offends me as an Italian-American is that Olive Garden, Ragu, and Chef Boyardee attempt to pass themselves off as genuine Italian cuisine.

Don't get me wrong, I mean no disrespect to those of you whose ancestry can not be traced back to the country shaped like a boot. Italian-Americans wear a certain badge of honor. And I'm not talking about the jewelry those guidos who walk the Boardwalk in Seaside Heights wear around their necks (They offend me too).

I told my wife that Sunday pasta dinner will now become a tradition in our home, just like when I grew up. The pot of gravy will forever become a simmering fixture on top of my stove. This is what's in our blood. This is what has been passed down from generation to generation.  I am perfectly content being the one to pass it along to my daughter. Even though she's only half Italian.

Nobody's perfect.

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