On Top of Spaghetti...

Last night I satisfied my boyfriend’s cravings for – you got it – meatballs. Don’t ask me why this is funny to me (and it’s not just their name), but I find meatballs to be one of those hangovers from mid-century housewifery, complete with vinyl tablecloth and Technicolor food photography. I nearly donned an apron for it but have yet to find one cute enough but not so precious as to prevent me from wearing it while working with tomato sauce.

The Ravenous Boy, 1954. Image Source: Plan 59 Prints

Don’t get me wrong – I dig a nice, polished modern kitchen in the fifties mode. But meatballs? After the mental image of that kitchen, the next words that came to mind were bad, duo-chrome man food. Being the amazing girlfriend I am, however, I cracked open Cook’s Illustrated Best Recipes and turned to that entry you never would have thought you’d turn to in a Cook’s Illustrated: Spaghetti and Meatballs.

What I learned from making meatballs:

1. Meatballs are easy to make. Really! Perhaps that’s why they became a fifties staple. They’re something the ole wife-y can pull off with more or less ease and still satisfy her family. And, yes, my boyfriend was very, very happy. I was actually nearly offended by how happy he was considering the many exotic recipes from Food & Wine I’ve made for him over the years that registered modest applause by compare.

2. Meatballs are NOT heavy, dense, fried balls o’ meat. No, these meatballs prepared per CI’s directions, were light, almost fluffy (if you can call meat fluffy). As the cookbook called it, if I’d rolled the balls too tightly or over-compressed them before frying, they may have turned out according to my preconceived notions. It turns out that a light hand is just the trick.

3. Now this wasn’t a surprise really but still a bit of a revelation. Eating meatballs over spaghetti with the sauce prepared in the same sauté pan as the meatballs – how to say this – well, it did induce an uncanny sensation of déjà vu. I don’t know if it was the texture or the color or the taste (probably a combination of all three), but the dish channeled the spirit of June Cleaver into our living room. Maybe this is the true definition of comfort food.

So there you have it. I apologize for prejudging this long-loved dish and encourage you to try it out on your nearest manly appetite.