Serves 8-10
         
          For Ragu
          1 lb hot or sweet Italian sausage
          1 lb beef short ribs (salted and peppered generously)
          Six large carrots, finely chopped
          2 28 oz cans tomato puree
          1 28 oz can water
          2 medium onions, diced
          3 large cloves garlic
          ½ cup chopped fresh parsley
          3 tbsp fresh thyme
          Salt & pepper to taste
          1 tbsp olive oil
          1 tbsp tomato paste
          ½ cup dry red wine
         
          For Meatballs
          1 lb ground beef
          ½ cup bread crumbs
          1 tbsp Dijon mustard
          1 tsp tomato paste
          ¼ cup fresh chopped parsley
          1tsp dried basil
          1 tsp dried oregano
          1 clove fresh garlic, minced or pressed
          ¼ cup parmesan cheese
          1 egg
          ½ cup milk
          Salt & pepper
         
Begin near tears. This is a hard project and you are an easy crier in the best of circumstances. You’re making it harder on yourself, you realize, by choosing to play Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson, whose music takes you right back to your father and your grandfather, your childhood, your great-grandmother Lucia’s house (her meatballs, which you will not attempt!) on Sundays in White Plains, New York. Sheila, you a nice-a girl, but you godda find a nice-a boy-a, settle down an getta married…

This music might seem incongruous to the meal you are preparing—you are not Texan, not Southern in any way, your five years in Kentucky notwithstanding—but never mind. Let’s go to Luckenback, Texas, Waylon and Willie and the boys…

You are surrounded by nice boys today. Here in your home, your husband and son in and out of the back door, back and forth to the garden to gather your thyme and parsley. Waylon and Willie streaming on your laptop. Your father and your grandfather sitting poised, as if in a Country Western song, on adjacent teardrops, ready to spill. Plus two more boys you’re sharing this meal with: your friend, D, and his son, B. D is the one who gave you the idea for these recipe-essays, the key, you told him to finishing the memoir about your father. You are beyond grateful and he is fun to cook for. Appreciative and enthusiastic. Affirming. That one word, in fact, pretty much describes your whole friendship with D. You will cook this ragu here in your own chaotic kitchen and then pack it into the car with your husband and kids and head over for a play/dinner date at 4pm. It’s 11 am now. You’d better get this thing going as it’s going to need long, slow heat.

*

“Luckenback Texas” is subtitled, “Back to the Basics of Love.” It’s about wanting to simplify, wanting to reconnect with someone you love. This is something your father might have been realizing, might have been working on when he died. Be thankful for that. Happy for him.

*

Chop your veggies first. Carrots from the farmer’s market, their bushy green tops stillattached. Onions, garlic, parsley, thyme. Your son wants to help, so put him in front of a bowl on the kitchen floor. Teach him how to thumb the thyme, stripping the tender leaves quickly and easily from their stems. He is methodical, though you catch him munching on a few. Meanwhile, brown the sausage and short ribs in batches in a large pot on the stove. See that he has finished and wants to do more. He is not usually so solicitous in the kitchen, so against your better judgment, tell him he can put some sausage into the pot.

Cringe as the oil splatters—just a drop—and burns him. Hear him scream and see him

recoil from the kitchen, betrayed. Run his finger under cool water and comfort him.

Explain to him that the kitchen can be a dangerous place, that injuries happen but most of the time we keep going. Tell him the story of your chef uncle cutting himself on that national cooking challenge show. How he kept cutting and ultimately won.

Understand that you are teaching him perseverance. Resilience. Resolve. Finish browning the meat and remove to a large bowl. Wipe his tears and tell him it’s time to make the meatballs.

Pre-heat oven to 350 and lightly oil a cookie sheet. Sure, you could fry them, but this will be easier, slightly healthier, less dangerous and just as good. Wash your hands carefully and take off your wedding rings, hand them to your son who stacks them on his thumb. Remember when this gold band that sits on top of your silver one belonged to your grandmother. Remember too that she never removed it to cook. How it was caked with meat and egg and breadcrumbs. Put all ingredients into the bowl. Put your hands into the bowl and mix thoroughly. It will be freezing and your fingers will ache but you will keep going.

*

In your father’s presence, you often felt small, silly, inferior, neglected.

In D’s presence, you always feel capable, interesting, intelligent, appreciated.

*

Wash your hands again and get a little bowl of water, put it on the table between the bowl and the cookie sheet. Dip your hands in the water to keep the meat from sticking to them. Form small balls between your palms and place them onto the sheet. Tell your son the story of the woman you worked for who made meatballs by rolling unseasoned ground meat into balls and sticking them into the microwave. How were they, mama? They were terrible, Rudy. Meat rocks, we called them. What did you tell her, mama? I told her they were delicious, Rudy. See empathy and

understanding flash across his face. Affirmed.

Bake for 15 minutes or so, turning once or twice.

In the same pot you browned the meat in, fry the onions, garlic, carrots, parsley and thyme in olive oil over medium heat. Cook until the onion is between translucent and slightly browned. Add tomato paste and cook until everything looks rusty. Add red wine to deglaze the pan. Cook down for a minute or two. Add canned tomatoes and water, the meat and meatballs back in. Salt and pepper to taste. Bring to a boil, then turn to very low, cover and simmer for 2-3 hours, stirring regularly so the bottom doesn’t burn.

Forget your son’s lesson when you lift the short ribs from the pot in two hours to test for doneness, and let them fall and splash back into the sauce, scalding your right hand so badly that tears unattached to Country Western music or memory come and your stomach turns over from pain. Suck your scream into your lungs so as to not terrify your children and stick your hand under cool running water. Keep it there. Ask your husband to stir the pot. Give yourself a few minutes—the pain will pass—and keep going.

*

D is just a year younger than your father was when he died. You are always hyper aware of this fact—at lunch at Wegmans, over beers at Zenos, at writing conferences, on play dates and here in the kitchen as you cook for him and his family. You wonder if he knows this. If he can sense it—an unspoken anxiety on the table between you.

You find yourself looking at D, who looks nothing like your father, and your brain

gets stuck. You always knew your father was young when he died—46 years old is young by anyone’s standards. But here is D, your peer, your friend, a guy who grew up in the 80s like you, who writes about hair metal bands and still listens to Van Halen, loud. A guy. A word which is somehow closer to boy, you think, than man.

But he’s also a parent, a husband, a homeowner, a professional, a grownup. You can’t make sense of this. You realize your father, too, was just a guy.

*

Your son is back and wants to dance with you and there is no better place to dance, you think, than the kitchen while Willie sings in the twilight glow I seen her, blue eyes crying in the rain… He looks up at you as and you remember the ICU nurses, crooning over your father, his eyes they called, “Paul Newman blue.” The kitchen is filled with heat and light and delicious scent, your boy’s own blue eyes now nothing but bright.

I don't need my name in the marquee lights, I got my song and I got you with me tonight. Maybe it's time we got back to the basics of love…

Willie and Waylon and Rudy and you dance close and twirl and dip while the ragu simmers. You’ll serve it soon, sprinkled with cheese over Ziti, with bread and red wine from bottle and box. Note that these songs are duets, “musical compositions for two performers.” You remember your father; you dance with your son; you cook for your friend.