Hot, sweaty, loud, long – why making pasta sauce was the best day of the whole year

Lisa Mayoh has grown up surrounded by tomatoes. She explains how the tomato gene has been passed down in her family from Nonna and Nonna – and why it is so special.

Every morning I wake up to pictures of tomatoes.

On the family WhatsApp group, my mum and her siblings show off their crops, sending photos of delicate new sprouts or red, almost ripe vines and, of course, the meals they make from them. There’s more pride and admiration than rivalry though, because growing them is in our blood.

We were all raised surrounded by tomatoes. When my Nonno was alive, they were everywhere. In the garden, growing taller than me.

In my Nonna’s kitchen, bubbling away on the stove. Both her stoves – like every good Italian woman, she has one in the garage as well as her kitchen.

Today, they’re still all around me, and even though my Nonno, the greatest tomato grower for suburbs around, passed away almost two decades ago, his offspring still nurture his passions, their way.

Lisa Mayoh's 'Nonno Joe' Tobia.

Lisa's Nonna, Dorothy Tobia.

Do you remember the opening scene of Looking For Alibrandi, when Josie (Pia Miranda) and her family dance around, making the pasta sauce from scratch? That was my childhood.

Every January, we would do that too. National Wog Day, we all called it. And the tricky thing about National Wog Day was you never knew when it was going to be.

It was entirely up to the tomatoes, you see.

When they would be ready, no one knew, so you couldn’t make plans just in case that was the day they would come calling.

Tomatoes – 200 kilos of then – bubbling away at Lisa Mayoh's family 'National Wog Day'.

Soooooo many bottles – but oh so worth it.

I have the most vivid memories of my Nonno coming home from the fruit markets with 200 kilos of tomatoes – only to be sent right back by my Nonna, who deemed them not quite ready, not quite right.

He may have sworn and muttered under his breath, but off he went.

He knew, just like she did, they had to be perfect.

And when they were, it was all hands on deck. Up in the dark at 4am to start the process that ended in the late afternoon with a plate of the good stuff on Nonna’s back deck with the whole extended family. Every last one of us.

Everyone had their job and played their part, whether it was cutting, stirring, boiling, pulping, filling and boiling again. Bottle after bottle. Soooooo many bottles.

The longneck ones my cousins and I would pretend were filled with beer instead of pasta sauce. Nonna was quality control, floating between jobs to make sure we were doing them properly, like she would, and yelling when we cut corners or wasted any bit of precious tomato flesh, no matter how small.

We made enough for the whole family for the whole year; and even though we all complained – it was hot, sweaty, loud, long – it was also the best day of the whole year.

Uncle Joe sharing the joy of the garden with his grandson, Oskar.

Uncle Nino doing his bit to make the pasta sauce.

All of us, all together. Aunty Jo getting cranky about Uncle Joe’s sauce-splattered T-shirt.

Uncle Carl inviting all his mates to lend a hand and lovingly enjoy the fruits of our labour.

My mum making sure the barely walking grandkids didn’t burn themselves, and rolling her eyes with Aunty Jo if someone turned up late or left early.

Their youngest brother, Uncle Nino, in charge of the radio and bad jokes, and my very Aussie husband loving every minute of the life he’d married into.

It was hard work – just ask anyone who has churned a few hundred kilos by hand – but oh so worth it.

Lisa's Uncle Carl Tobia with his beautiful tomatoes.

Lisa's mum, Doreen, making pasta.

I love that Nonno Joe (yes, just one of countless Joes in our family) and his passion for tomatoes lives on. In our gardens and on our WhatsApp.

Every picture I see brings me right back to the National Wog Days of my childhood. And while we can’t do it any more – Nonna’s too old at almost 87 to supervise, and no one else is game to take on the challenge/responsibility under her watchful, all-knowing eye – I think we all miss it.

Even though Mum or Aunty Jo would never admit it, for fear of the hard work starting all over again.

I know I miss it. But, for now, the pictures on my WhatsApp will have to do – and I know Nonno would be proud of what he planted in all of us because, along with their thick Sicilian accent, food is our love language. It’s how we all communicate.

If someone is sick, soup as good as Nonna’s will appear in your fridge.

If the masses need to be fed, the last piece of lasagne is what we fight over – because even though the sauce isn’t handmade any more, the pasta sheets still are … but by the next generation.

When Nonno was around, if he gave you a cut-off of his tomato plant, you knew it was love. Now it’s my mum who does that.

I remember sitting with Nonna a few years ago while she made meatballs, her famous pasta sheets and sauce that perfectly marries them. I filmed her, because you can’t write down ‘this much’ or a ‘handful’ in a recipe book – and they are videos I know my family and I will cherish.

Seeing her light up when her herds of great grandchildren race to adore her just like we do, reminds me how lucky we are to have her.

Luckily, the tomato gene is being passed down to us from them, and on to our pasta-slurping kids too.

Long live the bings of our family WhatsApp, quality-control Nonnas like ours, and tomatoes everywhere – grown ‘just right’ like Nonno’s, of  course.