All my life, meatballs were a big part of it. Mom would make them on a Sunday morning, and I learned at an early age you need to dip into the pot and get one! We had a weekly Sunday visitor named Mike who came to the house and paid a visit. Mom would have the pot of meatballs permeating in the sauce and Mike would get a folk and help himself. I would watch this ritual every week and wished I were tall enough to dig into the pot myself and get a meatball.
When I was tall enough to help myself, Mom started to place the wooden spoon on the handle of the big pot as a deterrent to proliferation of the meatball population. This was intimidating since the spoon had been stirring the hot sauce.
Finally I got married and realized that with a plan and an inexperienced meatball maker, I could possibly pull it off, or in the case of meatballs, pull one out! TLW (The Little Woman) had faithfully replicated Mom’s recipe and was leaving the pot unprotected! The possibilities were unlimited! After a few times, I started to get sloppy and leave telltale signs of meatball theft. (I think I wanted to be caught) Although TLW never said “No” to my taking the meaty wonders, she would remark when there were signs. Often she went out to the store or church, opening up my chances. Sometimes she would say: “Joe, would stir the gravy while I’m gone?” It was like asking a horse thief to lock the stable door.
Recently, she interrupted my Jets game with an odd request.
“Joe, will you do me a favor and taste my meatballs?”
“I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”
“Yes, I tried a new recipe and I’m afraid it is too spicy. Go ahead, try one, you can even try a sausage if you want!”
It wasn’t April 1st, I didn’t see any readable traps, and I know she never made explosive meatballs before, and so I took one. It was no fun. Having permission to take a meatball without the art of stealing it, is not the same.
Putting on her coat, she leaves me to the whole exposed rack of meatballs. Feeling somewhat disappointed, I wondered if it was the recipe or the lack of routine. I take one more, taste it and think: “Better, much better!”
Funny thing is I left the sausages alone; there is no tradition in it.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO A MEATBALL FROM CONNECTICUT, #2 SISTER, (NIPPY) FRAN!
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