The Meatball Mess

 

Yesterday I learned two lessons that I think I already knew: you cannot put two lbs. of ground meat out to thaw at two in the afternoon and expect to make meatballs out of it at five; meatballs are often a whole lot of work—and time-consuming. At the rate I was going, we could have had meatballs for Monday breakfast. We had take-out sandwiches from the Great Outdoors for supper last night.

So I vowed to make the blasted meatballs today when I had all day to work on them—well, not really. I had hoped to write a thousand words today, but I do believe, at almost 8:30, that ship sailed without me. I made an executive decision: we do not need thirty good-sized meatballs (not those little one you get frozen), so I would cut the recipe in half. Still, it called for mixing the ground beef, bread soaked in milk and then squeezed dry (I hope no kosher readers are following this), parsley, egg, seasonings, diced onion, and then putting the whole thing in the food processor for uniformity of texture. Good thing it was a holiday and Christian was home, because I had to call him to get the processor off a shelf in my closet. It is far too heavy for me to stand, balance and get it down.

He hooked it up in the kitchen and confessed he didn’t know how to lock it and make it start. I figured that out but tripped a circuit breaker in the process. Had to call
Christian to come out and fix it—I don’t know why but when others can just poke at the little yellow light in the midst of the plug fixture and it goes out, I poke and nada. After all that, it took two minutes to process the meat, so before Christian could leave the cottage, he put most of the processor stuff back in the closet. He was, as he almost always is, good-natured about it.

I decided to streamline the recipe. You are supposed to bake the meatballs and then brown in a skillet. That would have meant doing it in batches. I baked them a little extra long and decided they were firm enough. You were to make a gravy of butter, tomato paste, red wine, and beef broth and let it cook down. Recipes tell you that happens within fifteen minutes, but they lie. It can take hours. I shortened it by making a roux and then simmering the meatballs in the thin but flavorful gravy that resulted.

The verdict from the family is that they were marvelous, gravy was excellent. I opted to let Jordan cook noodles, which I don’t think she did, and I used a couple of baguette slices to sop up my gravy. But I warned them it will be a long time before that recipe appears in the rotation again. Whoosh! It’s 8:30, and I’m tired. And no writing done, except this blog.

Last night I had some company—Jordan came out, masked, intending to sit on the patio, but it was chilly so she sat across the room, and we left the door open for circulation (this may be an example of how we fool ourselves). Then Christian came out, but we sent him back in for a mask. And then we had sort of a happy hour. I was glad to visit with them, and I guess I felt about as safe as I can be. But tomorrow, apparently all three are going to “Bulls’ Night Out” so we start the quarantine all over again. But now we’ve made one more step toward normalcy—my Christmas decorations are down.

When my children were young, getting to go to the rodeo was a rite of passage. Each one waited for the year they were deemed old enough to go. We went with friends who also had four children, ate barbecue at the Coburn’s dining hall, wandered the barns, and had a grand time. Then when the grandchildren were young, they would all come to FW for rodeo and a big family get-together. Those were the days! Gradually I became disenchanted, which was a bit odd since I was studying the history and literature of the American West and rodeo events speak to that. But I found I didn’t want to watch the bull riding, for fear I’d see someone killed. Then it spread to not wanting to watch calf roping, out of sympathy for the poor, terrified calves. Today, you couldn’t pay me to go to a rodeo performance, and Bulls’ Night Out is the last thing I would ever want to see. When I said that to Jordan last night, she said, “I may get there too, but now I enjoy it.” I thought it was an interesting comment.

So tomorrow Mary and Prudence will come for happy hour—since it is to be 75, we can meet on the patio, I think. And then I’ll fix myself a salmon bowl for supper. I’m looking forward to it already. And tomorrow I will write those thousand words.

Stay safe, please. Wear your masks. Every little bit helps.