Turkey Sausage with Pasta

September. Aiden started third grade. He walked into school with the same forward motion, the same no-looking-back, but the backpack was heavier this year — not physically, but emotionally. He has lost his uncle. He has seen his father grieve. He is seven and he has learned that the world takes people without asking, and the knowledge has settled into him the way knowledge settles into all children: quietly, permanently, changing the architecture of who he is without changing the face he shows the world. Zaria started kindergarten. She walked in wearing her purple backpack and immediately began organizing the classroom, because Zaria does not enter spaces — she governs them. Her teacher, Mrs. Kim, called me after the first day and said, "Your daughter told me she is a chef." I said, "She is." Mrs. Kim said, "She offered to improve the school lunch menu." I said, "That sounds like Zaria." Mrs. Kim said, "She had specific suggestions." Of course she did. She is Cheryl Carter's granddaughter. Specific suggestions are the family business. I am cooking again with something that is not joy but is more than duty. It is — I do not have the exact word — purpose. I cook because the cooking is how I process. It was how I processed the divorce, how I processed the pandemic, and now it is how I process the loss of Marc. The food does not fix the grief. The food holds the grief. The food gives it a container, the way a bowl holds soup — the grief is in there, mixed in with the garlic and the onion and the slow simmer of time, and when I eat, I taste both the food and the sorrow, and the combination is nourishment. I made smothered pork chops on Marc's birthday. He would have been twenty-eight. I made his favorite meal and set his plate and ate mine and the tears came the way they come every time I make the pork chops now — not because the food is sad, but because the food was his, and "his" now means "was," and "was" is the saddest word in the English language.

Smothered pork chops are Marc’s, and I will keep them that way — sacred, set apart, made only when I am ready to cry and eat at the same time. But the kids still need to be fed on the ordinary nights, the Tuesday nights, the nights when Aiden has homework and Zaria has opinions about dinner and the grief is present but quiet. This turkey sausage pasta is what I reach for on those nights — it’s warm and filling and it has enough going on that everyone at the table has something to say about it, which means for twenty minutes, we are a family talking about food instead of a family sitting inside our loss. That is enough. Some nights, that is exactly enough.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 4

Ingredients

12 oz penne or rigatoni pasta
1 lb Italian-style turkey sausage, casings removed
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 red bell pepper, diced
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, undrained
1 can (8 oz) tomato sauce
1 teaspoon Italian seasoning
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes (optional)
Salt and black pepper, to taste
1/4 cup fresh parsley, chopped
1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese, for serving

Instructions

Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook pasta according to package directions until al dente. Reserve 1/2 cup pasta water, then drain and set aside.
Brown the sausage. Heat olive oil in a large skillet or Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add the turkey sausage and cook, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, until browned and cooked through, about 6–8 minutes. Transfer to a plate and set aside.
Saute the vegetables. In the same skillet, add the onion and bell pepper. Cook over medium heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, about 4–5 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for 1 minute more until fragrant.
Build the sauce. Return the sausage to the skillet. Stir in the diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, Italian seasoning, smoked paprika, and red pepper flakes if using. Season with salt and black pepper. Simmer uncovered over medium-low heat for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce thickens slightly.
Combine and finish. Add the cooked pasta to the skillet and toss to coat, adding splashes of reserved pasta water as needed to loosen the sauce. Cook for 2 minutes until everything is heated through and well combined.
Serve. Divide into bowls, top with chopped fresh parsley and grated Parmesan. Serve immediately.

Nutrition (per serving)

Turkey Sausage with Pasta — The Meal I Make When the Grief Needs Somewhere to Go