I was all set to do a blog post on how to make my Grandmother’s meatballs. I had asked her if I could share the recipe on my blog, something that she didn’t completely understand, and she said, “Oh ya, sure.” Really, I have been working on it for some time. You see, when she taught me how to make them, she didn’t use measurements or any real directions. She cooks like me. Or, I should say, I cook like her. We feel and smell and taste our way to a good meal.
After her passing away, however, I wanted to go a different direction. I had decided to try and just take pictures and document the process without using any really measuring in her honor. I went to the store and bought everything I needed. Came home and in a quiet kitchen, I began to cook. As I started the sauce, her voice rang in my mind. “Not too much. Ya, ya, ya… more of that. Basil? No, no basil in the sauce.” I began to quietly cry. There she was, cooking along side with me. Right there in my kitchen.
So pictures were not taken. I knew that it was to be my moment. All mine. I mixed the meat. I soaked the bread. I beat the eggs. All the while, hearing her sit in my kitchen and give me direction. When everything was mixed and ready to be made into little meatballs, I paused. I cried. I told her I missed her. I made secret promises to her.
For now, all I can share are the clean dishes.