Meatballs
She makes them on special occasions. Meatballs. And once you have had hers, you shun all others. It’s just the way it is. She starts first thing in the morning, mixing the meat, the cheese, the pignolis, the oil—all in a bowl. Then those old hands scoop out the perfect amount—over and over—molding the balls, dropping them into the hot skillet. You wait. You smell. You listen to the sizzle from the living room. You move closer to the kitchen doorway. You peek around the corner at the empty plate wondering when one will land there. And when it does, you are waiting with a fork. You stab it, lift it, and hold it like a lollipop—barely giving it time to cool before you bite. And she stands, hands on apron hips, watching—waiting—listening to you chew. Before the first swallow, she smiles and says, “Well? How is it?”
Comments
Oh, what a great addition to the posting. So, in your childhood—every Sunday was a special occasion…
Jan 1 December 08
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Since my mother was the inspiration for this piece, I will add that although now we tend to have pasta with meat sauce on special occasions (broadly defined), growing up these feasts were Sunday affairs. Early mass and then home for a morning filled with sizzling and simmering.
Diane 1 December 08