I have become a tomato sauce-making machine. A sauce-bot. A robo-Italian grandma. What else is there to do, faced with this?
Every time I see a fruit fly on one, my psyche jerks a bit. I am not to let even one go to waste.
So, in the freezer I now have enough sauce for 7 pounds of pasta.
It wasn't easy to find a sauce recipe suitable for using fresh tomatoes, and heirloom varieties at that. Every recipe out there either assumes I either have acreage of paste tomato plants all ripening at once, or that I just robbed an Italian grocer and desperately need to destroy the cans of San Marzano so I can plead innocent should someone open my pantry. Believe me, I'd love to enjoy each one of these lovelies raw, sliced, salted, piled on white bread with mayo and pepper, but there comes a time of necessary surrender.
At that crucial time when your counterful of summer tomatoes are so ripe that they simply won't last another day, when the fruit flies are poised to devour your precious jewels overnight, multiply in numbers to the hundreds of billions, organize into a buzzing human form, and kick you out of your own kitchen, sieze control of the situation. Make sauce.