In our family, weekends weren’t measured by time — they were measured by meals.
Saturday was pizza. Sunday was sauce. And everything started with Nonno Josie.
He came to Canada with a shoemaker’s hands and a heart full of recipes, bringing his mother, his sisters, and later, a bride. What he built was more than a home — it was a kitchen filled with stories, and a table that never ran out of food to share, homemade wine to pour, or stories worth laughing over.
Saturday: Dough, Cheese, and a Whole Lot of Heart
Pizza meant real dough, made by hand — not rolled from a tube, but stretched and pressed with flour-dusted palms. Tomato sauce simmered low on the stove. Toppings? Just a bit of fresh oregano and a grating of Romano — the cheese from Josie’s homeland.
That cheese was sacred. Bought by the wheel, it was shared out among family like treasure. No gooey mozzarella, no piles of toppings — just a few bold, perfect ingredients, layered with respect.
It wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t ‘gourmet.’ It was better than both. It was ours.
Sunday: Sauce That Waits,
and Tables That Welcome
Sunday started early, going to Mass — and then it was time to put the sauce on the stove before the espresso was ready. Some weeks it was meatballs. Some weeks, chicken. But for a special treat — sometimes with pork ribs.
We passed the cheese, not phones. Set tables, not timers. And when the meal was ready, everyone came — no invitations needed.
It was a ritual, a reunion, and a reminder: love lives in food.
Now, We’re Inviting You In
This June, we’re sharing a slice of that tradition with you. Come see us at the bakery for handmade pizza, just like our Nonna makes for us. With dough stretched by hand, sauce simmered on the stove, and a final flourish of Romano and oregano — just like Nonno Josie would’ve wanted.
“We passed the cheese, not phones.”
Sunday sauce the Fratini way.
Come hungry. Come often. Come for a taste of what’s made us who we are.
Because the best traditions aren’t kept — they’re passed down.