My aunt Claire recently passed, and with her went the best ragoût in New England. Or at least Rhode Island, but definitely Manville.
While the US may be more familiar with its Italian cousin (think Ragu), a French-Canadian ragoût will put hair on your chest, or at least some pounds around your middle. A Parisian ragoût, or stew, to put it simply, might contain vegetables like mushrooms and can pick and choose the meats that might be involved. But in northern Rhode Island, it means only one thing—slow cooked pork meatballs with a brown gravy laced with shredded turkey and heavy with chunks of large, boiled potatoes. Its a closer kin to Swedish meatballs than any pasta sauce or delicate Parisian stew.
Aunt Claire would brown the flour for the gravy in the oven, even well into her 80s. She’d make it probably once a year, usually around or after the New Year. She’d made pounds and pounds of potatoes. She’d roast a turkey and shred the meat. The whole family would get together and take turns sitting at the table for a hearty bowl with a side of warm French bread topped with a healthy amount of butter. Most people would also go home with Tupperware leftovers that we’d freeze for another day or eat the following day, hungry again for the thick, rich gravy and moist meatballs.
She’d make a lot of ragoût. I mean a lot. She was the oldest of 10 children and never had any herself, but her sisters and brothers more than made up for that—one of them had 10 kids of her own. All in all, there were probably 8 siblings with their spouses and children that would show up at that table for a helping. That’s easily a consistent group of 30-40 people (sometimes more, sometimes less) that would look forward to ragoût every season. And if you couldn’t make it one year, you’d probably have a Tupperware set aside with your name on it.
I will miss Aunt Claire, and not just because of her cooking. Still, many of my memories are tied to food with her. On New Year’s Day, when we would visit, she’d have made liver pate… a mound of liverwurst topped with a layer of cream cheese and slices of green olives that you’d scoop up on a cracker. Or homemade peanut butter Ritz sandwiches dipped in chocolate. Or Oreo-cookie “truffle” balls. Or dinner roll sandwiches of chicken or ham salad. Whenever we’d visit, she’d try to feed us. It was difficult to sit without a plate in your face or leave without a doggie bag.
Food was her way to show that she cared. That was easy to see. And if you can measure it, then she loved us all a lot. We all love you as well, Aunt Claire. Rest in peace. I hope the food wherever you are is half as good as the food you prepared for your family.