How Two Girls, One Freezer, and a case of Tomatoes Became a Tradition

Last year, Lyndsay and I decided we were going to make sauce. One case of tomatoes, a can-do attitude, and big “we’re basically Italian Nonna’s” energy. Spoiler alert: it did not go as planned. The chaos was… memorable. Let’s just say the sauce didn’t sauce, the tomatoes didn’t tomato, and we both ended the day wondering if we should just stick to buying jars from the store like normal people.

But here’s the thing — Lyndsay and I made a deal. We were going to make as much as we could for the people we love. Because we believe food is love, and food is fuel. And to know that we poured our love, laughter, and literal sweat into feeding the souls of our favourite people? That’s priceless.

Now, for context: Lyndsay is the Pickling Queen. My type A, label-making, spreadsheet-loving, rule-following goddess. I, on the other hand, am her Type B hurricane counterpart. Together, we’re the perfect storm of chaos and control — and apparently, sauce-making ambition.

For me, making sauce isn’t just an activity; it’s a piece of my childhood. One of the most important food figures in my life was Mrs. Isernia — my Godfather’s mother-in-law, and the honorary Nonna of my heart. She treated me like her own, made me feel seen and loved, and somehow managed to make everyone who entered her kitchen feel like family.

She was the queen of hospitality — and probably the reason I started drinking espresso far too young. (“It’s good for you!” she said, handing me a biscotti. I’m still convinced that’s why I never hit 5’7.”)

When we made sauce at her house, I was a kid — the designated “helper” — which really meant I got to snack, run wild through her garden, and pretend I was contributing. But what I was soaking up was magic. The laughter, the smells, the clatter of jars, the way she fed people like it was her love language.

So, naturally, when Lyndsay and I started our Pickle Pack tradition, I told her we had to add sauce to the list. This year, we did it the Mrs. Isernia way… sort of.

Okay, Nonna’s everywhere, please don’t faint — we froze our tomatoes.

Yes, you read that right. We froze them. The amount of people who looked at us like we had committed a culinary crime was staggering. You’d think I said the Lord’s name in vain. But here’s the deal: we were too busy all summer, and truly — who wants to cook all day in August heat? Absolutely not. Fall girlies through and through, we saved it for a cooler day when life slowed down.

That morning, I channeled my inner Mrs. Isernia: hair in a Nonna bun, plaid apron on, and using my Grandma’s old canning pots. (She may not have been much of a cook, but she could preserve almost anything.) It felt like she was right there with me. After a quick call to my mom to confirm the steps — and a cautious skim of the Ball Home Preserving cookbook to ensure I didn’t accidentally give myself botulism — we got to work.

Hours later, there we were: surrounded by jars of rich, red sauce, the smell of tomatoes lingering in the air, the kitchen an absolute disaster. I was singing, dancing, and making Lyndsay question every life choice that led her to this friendship. And yet — it was perfect.

Because we didn’t just make sauce. We made a memory. We created a tradition rooted in the ones passed down to us — women who cooked with love, opened their homes, and hoped someone would continue what they started.

Sure, my right arm may never recover from hand-milling all those tomatoes (pretty sure it’s going to fall off any day now), but I’m so proud of what we created. Those jars aren’t just sauce — they’re fuel for my beloved Supper Club crew, to feed my people, they’re love in liquid form, and they’re a reminder that traditions evolve, but the heart behind them never changes.

So, here’s my advice: start your own Sauce Club. Find your Lyndsay. Channel your Mrs. Isernia. Make something messy and beautiful with your own hands. Because sometimes, the best recipes are the ones written in laughter, chaos, and love.