THE ART OF FRIDAY NIGHT DINNER

I’d never dare to adapt my mother’s pasta sauce recipe, but here’s how I make it extra-special

My mum’s tomato sauce runs through me like a stick of rock. There is no other meal that makes me feel as grounded, both to cook and to eat, than Penny Steafel’s pasta sauce. My brother and sister and I (along with everyone we grew up with) were built on the stuff: our oldest friends still talk, misty-eyed, about the days when they’d come round for tea and Penny’s pasta was on the menu.

I have taken a tub of it with me to every new home. I’ve taken it across borders, in fact – the giant Tupperware shoved precariously in my handbag on the Eurostar once prompted a security guard to peer at me and ask: “Is it blood?”

It is the only dish I wouldn’t dream of adapting – primarily because I’d get very short shrift from its creator, but also because it is perfect as it is. The only secret to it is time. You could always tell which stage the sauce was at from the smell wafting up through the house – raw onions hitting hot olive oil, melting into sweetness as they slowly softened; the tomato becoming more intense as it blipped away in a big copper pan. Nothing annoyed her more than us asking: “When’s tea ready?” “It’s ready when it’s ready,” was the exasperated reply. When it smelled about right, you knew it was time to race downstairs.

Midweek, the sauce needs nothing more than spaghetti and some grated parmesan. But on a Friday (my family has bizarre rules about what you can eat on certain days) it needs something extra. Veal escalopes dipped in flour, egg and breadcrumbs, fried until golden, make for a great Friday meal. Make the sauce in advance and heat up while you fry the veal. Serve on dishes in the middle of the table, and let everyone dive in.