There’s an outdoor brick fireplace with a roaring fire and crackling logs. Eager children are cutting tomatoes on a long wooden table. And no fewer than three nonnas, two nonnos, and a dozen other “paisanos” watch bubbling pots and a churning food mill. If you closed your eyes, you’d think you were in Italy. But actually, it’s a Pittsburgh backyard on Labor Day and we’re canning tomatoes…The old school way, as generations before us have done.
Our dear friend and local restaurant owner, Steven D’Achille, is hosting the annual event that his family looks forward to every year. It began for them “a hundred years ago” in Italy, in the Abruzzo town of Roccacinquemiglia, where his father grew up and where he still has roots firmly planted. Back then, communal cooking was a way of life, and canning a means of survival through the long winter months, when fresh produce lay dormant until spring. It was anchored by the brick “forno” in the middle of town, where everyone went to bake bread. Today, with easy access to every type of oven imaginable and any style of canned tomato we could ever need, our reasons look a little different—though our resolve remains the same.
Andrea Lobas
Canning Tomatoes as a Treasured Family Tradition
“I hosted at my house for the first time last year, after taking a few years off following my grandparents’ passing,” Steven begins. “We all wanted to revive the tradition and share it with the younger generation—my daughter, nieces, nephews, and the rest of our family and friends,” he continues. “Our first try was messy and unorganized, but this year we were ready.” He brought in the heavy hitters to guide our efforts. “My aunt—who learned all the tricks from my grandparents in Italy and is the best cook I know—is showing us the ropes.”
She expertly explains the process to inquisitive ears and offers simple tips. Cut the tomatoes into chunks, throw them in a pot to simmer “until the skins stick to the back of your wooden spoon,” pass them through a food mill, and then fill your jars—complete with a basil leaf in each—with the hot tomato mixture, leaving about 1/4 to 1/2 inch of headspace. The filled jars are then placed into boiling water to process “for about an hour.” (Even shorter would probably do the trick to preserve the tomato sauce, but they like to play it safe.)
It’s a stunningly simple method that has stood the test of time and traveled from one continent to another, yet carries with it treasured memories for the D’Achilles, as only kitchen moments can.
With 9 1/2 bushels of tomatoes from a local farm (half Roma, half garden-variety), we’ve made nearly 200 quarts of passata. It has taken hours—night has fallen, and we’re using flashlights to fish out the last containers. But it has been a blissful day. We watched the kids’ excitement as they stirred stewing pots bigger than they were. We packed the jars carefully and hand-picked the ones we wanted to take home. We even whipped up a batch of pasta to test our results, to rave reviews. And when all was said and done? “It reminds me why keeping this tradition alive matters so much,” Steven shares as we survey the scene.
Canning tomatoes is more than walking away with jars to use for Sunday gravy or hearty pasta e fagioli. It’s about preserving (pun intended) what’s most sacred—good, quality food, and even better connections with our family, friends, and culture.
As for next year, there are already plans in place to craft special labels and custom aprons. Someone even volunteered to lead a fresh pasta-making lesson on the side. But until then, every time we pop the top of our hard-earned tomato passata, we’ll savor the tastes, smells, and sounds of our collective experience and appreciate it all the more. We can’t wait to do it all over again.
