It started with the pancetta.
Sharp smell, salty and rich, clung to the air like a memory you didn’t invite in. The kind that sits on your shoulder, whispering.
I used to make this Bolognese with someone I don’t talk about now. Back then, it simmered with red wine and laughter and the kind of casual cruelty you only notice when the spoon hits the bottom of the pot.
This time—just me. The blue Dutch oven with the dent from that night. You know the one. I dropped it when I packed in a hurry. It still wobbles on the stove. Still cooks just fine.
What The Original Looked Like
Her Highness does it with structure.
You build the soffritto like a base note—onion, carrot, celery, pancetta. No loud colors. Just whispers of sweetness and fat. Then the meat, in two tones: pork and beef, browned separately, carefully. Tomato paste gets a minute of spotlight—just one. The white wine bubbles. The milk curdles (on purpose). Then the thyme, the bay, the tomatoes. Chicken stock like an exhale.
It simmers low and long. Three hours. Maybe more. She says “loose chili” is the target. I say it looks like something old and sacred. Something you’re not allowed to rush.
What I Did Differently
Didn’t have pancetta. Used bacon.
Didn’t have white wine either. I had that half bottle of red from when Mae came over and didn’t finish her glass. That went in.
I skipped the chicken stock and used water from boiling potatoes. I don’t regret it. I was tired. I needed it to taste like effort anyway. Not perfection.
The thyme—I forgot to tie it. Just threw it in. I fished out the stalks later like I was gutting something small and stubborn.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The onions browned too fast. I was thinking about the last time I made this and forgot to stir. Mae was asking if I still had the measuring spoon she melted. I said yes. It’s in the drawer with the broken whisk and the biscuit ratios scrawled on that bank envelope from 2002.
The meat hit the pan and I could smell Christmas. Not the one with the tree—no, the last one before the divorce. Vanilla in the cookies. Burnt edges. I stirred too hard. The spoon clanged against the dent in the Dutch oven. That sound again. Like a dropped pan. Like a decision.
I kept going. Red wine hissed when it hit the tomato paste. Looked like a bruise spreading. The sauce thickened. Changed. Got quieter.
Mae sat on the counter. Didn’t say much. Just watched. That girl has opinions about sauce, but not this time.
A Few Things I Learned
It needs time. And distraction.
If you hover, it gets needy. If you walk away, it tells you who you are when you come back.
Also—bacon works. But it makes the whole thing louder.
What I Did With the Extras
Mae took a jar. Called it “not as soft as last time.” She wasn’t wrong.
I poured the rest over penne and ate it cold later, standing by the sink. Didn’t reheat it. Didn’t need to.
Would I Make It Again?
Probably. But only when the house is quiet enough to hear it simmer.
That’s As Much As I Remember
It didn’t taste like it used to.
But then again—neither do I.
If you want something spicier, I did a version of Martha’s lamb ragù last winter that made me cry for no reason. Different ache. Still good.
FAQs
I didn’t either. bacon worked. prosciutto would too, maybe. or skip it. the sauce forgives.
You can. it’ll taste a little flatter, but sometimes that’s what you need. less noise, more meat.
Hours. but not the kind you have to watch. it just… exists beside you. check in now and then. like a cat.
Yes. and also no. i forgot the last bit once and nobody cried. but the milk does something round to the edges.
Check out More Recipes:
- Martha Stewart Roast Chicken
- Martha Stewart Beef Stew
- Martha Stewart Vegetable Lasagna
- Martha Stewart Turkey Chili
Martha Stewart Bolognese Sauce
Description
Soft, slow, and just a little broken—like the pot, and the memory.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Make the soffritto: dropped butter and oil into the dutch oven—yes, that one. let it sizzle. added chopped bacon because pancetta was a dream, not a reality. it crisped. tossed in the onion, carrot, celery. stirred until the edges browned and it started to smell like sundays that used to feel fuller.
- Brown the meat: added both—beef first, then pork. broke it up with the back of the wooden spoon. the one with the burn mark near the handle. stirred while it lost its pink. drained off the fat and tried not to look at what left the pan.
- Add the flavor: scooped in tomato paste—too much? maybe. stirred it in anyway. poured in the wine. red. hissed, smoked, lifted something off the bottom. added the first half of the milk and watched it curdle like a mistake i’d made before. thyme went in messy. bay leaves too. didn’t tie anything. didn’t care.
- Let it become itself: pureed tomatoes slid in next. then the potato water. yes, potato water. stirred until it looked like something old and honest. salt. pepper. brought it to a boil, then down to a whisper. partially covered. left it to simmer three hours, maybe more. skimmed the fat like clearing my head.
- Finish it up: added the rest of the milk when the sauce looked like memory. stirred once. tasted. didn’t fix it. it was enough. maybe even good.