Meatballs. A ball of ground meat that everyone and their mothers have a coveted and cherished recipe for. My dad tells of his fond childhood memories, eating raw meatballs in the backyard that were snagged off the kitchen counter. This makes me want to gag. I don’t really like meatballs, and the thought of eating them raw is just plain…. Eeehhh.
My mother is well-known in town for her extraordinary meatball making capabilities. (Even though she’s polish). Since I don’t share the same meatball making skills, she brings over a vat of meatballs every few weeks, you know, so my husband and kids don’t starve. Because a life without meatballs is just unheard of.
So this week I caved. I sealed my hands with plastic baggies and rubber bands and I made meatballs. Then I realized I didn’t have any pasta. My grill was calling to me, and I answered. I put my meatballs on the grill. I had no plan. I had no pasta. I put out a bowl of marinara for dipping, some parmesan for sprinkling, and a salad for good measure. Oh, and a crusty loaf of bread. All was well in the world.