The Smell of Summer

Today marks fifteen years since my dad passed away.

Some anniversaries have a way of bringing everything back, no matter how much time has passed. Memories surfaced throughout the day, and I found myself thinking about him more than usual.

So I decided to make one of his favorite meals.
Sausage and peppers.

Every summer, our extended family rented houses in Seaside Heights, New Jersey. My aunts, uncles, cousins—we were all there together, creating the kinds of memories that only seem to happen at the Jersey Shore.

And every Wednesday night—without fail—was boardwalk night.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t something we planned. It was simply our tradition.

We’d wander the boardwalk, play games, ride endless rides, watch the fireworks, and soak up everything that made those summer vacations so special.

But for my dad, there was one stop that always came first.

A sausage and peppers sandwich.

The smell of onions caramelizing on a hot griddle. Sweet peppers sizzling beside them. Italian sausage browning until the edges were just right. Tucked into a warm roll and eaten with a stack of napkins because there was no neat way to enjoy it.

To me, that smell wasn’t just dinner.

It was summer.

Tonight, I stood in my kitchen, ready to recreate one of my dad’s favorite meals.

I sliced the peppers. I peeled the onions. I reached for the sausage…

…and realized I’d forgotten to buy it.

I laughed out loud.

After all these years, I could almost hear my dad teasing me.

“Suzanne…you forgot the sausage?”

There was no way I was driving back to the store.

So I improvised.

I browned ground turkey with onions and peppers, added a generous drizzle of Pizzaiola Olive Oil, and a pinch of fennel seed—that unmistakable flavor that makes Italian sausage taste like Italian sausage. Then I spooned it all over creamy polenta.

Was it the same sandwich my dad devoured every Wednesday night on the Seaside Heights boardwalk?

Not even close.

But as the onions softened, the peppers caramelized, and the aroma of garlic, herbs, and fennel filled my kitchen, something unexpected happened.

For a few moments, I wasn’t standing in my condo on Hilton Head Island.

I was back on that boardwalk.

I could almost hear the laughter of my cousins, the clanging arcade games, the distant roar of the rides, and see my dad happily enjoying the first sausage and peppers of the week.

That’s the remarkable thing about food.

Sometimes it isn’t the recipe that brings us back.

It’s the smell.

The memory.

The people we shared it with.

I’ve spent the last few years teaching people about olive oil—how it can transform a dish, elevate a recipe, and bring people together around a table.

But tonight, it reminded me of something even more important.

Food carries our stories.

It preserves our traditions.

It keeps the people we love close, long after they’re gone.

Sometimes all it takes is the smell of onions and peppers in a skillet to remember exactly where you came from… and exactly who taught you to love good food.

Tonight, dinner wasn’t really about sausage and peppers.

It was about my dad.

And somehow, even without the sausage, it was exactly the meal I needed.

What food instantly takes you back to someone you love?

I’d love to hear your story.

— Suzanne