The Wooden Spoon
BY HENRY MESSERSMITH ‘25
I remember all the Sundays as a little kid. Waking up to my Nonna, my mom and sister in the kitchen making the week’s tomato sauce. My Nonna, with the same wooden spoon she would only use for the sauce, waving it at me and yelling to “esci di qui!” (Get out of here!). It was not because I was a boy or because I would soak up the sauce with the crusty bread when I thought they were not looking. I was not welcome in the kitchen on Sundays during the sauce making because I had not reached that “rite of passage.” My sister Alexandra is nine years older than I am. She had transitioned from saucetaster to sauce-maker many years before. At twelve-years old, I hoped my Sunday would be coming soon. The MerriamWebster Dictionary defines rite of passage as a “ritual, event, or experience that marks or constitutes a major milestone or change in a person’s life.” As that boy looking into the kitchen, smelling the tomatoes, basil, and garlic simmering, I did not realize how much it mattered that I would eventually be allowed to hold the wooden spoon. Being allowed to enter the kitchen on Sunday mornings to prepare the week’s sauce was my first rite of passage from childhood to adulthood. As a young boy, I did not really have many opportunities to have a “rites of passage” moment. A few of my friends had already experienced significant transitions: puberty, bar mitzvahs, confirmations, graduations, and even driving. My mom, raised in a strict Catholic home, did not want me or my sister to have to abide by the “rites of passage” required of her. Therefore, the making of the sauce was seen as a true “rite of passage” experience for my family. It represented more than the passing down of the wooden spoon. Like a bar mitzvah or confirmation, it marked my transition from childhood to adulthood. As far back as I remember I was always allowed in the kitchen. I learned to cook from my father, how to bake from my Nonna, and how to burn food from my mom. However, the making of the sauce meant more. It meant I was ready to be patient, because my Nonna’s sauce takes all day. I would be responsible because this family recipe is sacred and cannot be shared. The Sunday sauce represented a transition in my life. It reminded me that we are always changing, and that life is always evolving. Standing over the large pot with bubbling sauce, I am reminded of a childhood book, Strega Nona. It is a story of a magic pot used by an Italian grandmother who uses witchcraft 26
to feed an entire village. My Nonna explained to me during the “passing of the spoon” ceremony that, just like Strega Nonna’s pasta pot, our sauce would feed our family and friends in abundance. If we had the basic ingredients, plus the secret addition, we could provide a hearty meal for our family. However, that is not the only lesson she was trying to teach me. The “rite of passage” from childhood to adulthood meant that I now had a responsibility to contribute to the community in some way. My family has used this sauce to make lasagna for families in need, for someone who lost a member of their family, or even to celebrate happy times. The sauce needs to be shared. I must now be someone willing to share. Unfamiliar cultures and religions celebrate the transition from childhood in adulthood in many ways. However, being allowed in the kitchen to help make the tomato sauce is not the same. No one lifted me up on a chair, I did not get presents, people did not dance or streak my face with paint. Unlike the tithing party in the book The Unwind, my “rite of passage” did not end when the party ended. I was expected every Sunday morning to help with all the steps to make the sauce. It meant that my passage to adulthood would take time. Becoming an adult would require more lessons from the other family members in the kitchen. As the years went on, the lessons changed. My Nonna is older and when she visits, she sits in the kitchen instead of standing. I have more responsibilities to make sure the sauce is just right. I know the sauce I make does not always taste exactly like my Nonna’s, but that is not what matters to me, it matters that I made the sauce and have taken over the spoon from my sister. For some, this may not seem like a real “rite.” Making sauce once a week can be seen as ordinary. However, the welcome into the kitchen meant more to me than any fancy party or ceremony. Instead of “get out of here, Henry!” my Nonna tells me, “Andiamo a la cucina Enrico.” (Let’s go into the kitchen, Henry.) My transition from childhood to adulthood may still be in progress; however, the first “rite of passage” of making our family’s secret sauce recipe was my first step. Besides the lessons learned, the meaningful time with my family, the sense of community and giving back, I know one day I will be sitting in the kitchen telling my grandchildren the lessons I learned.
