No wonder I can't cook. I was digging around for a cookie recipe and found this one for our family's meatballs. My dad dictated this to me, after much prodding, in 2009.
Dad died almost two years ago, and tears came to my eyes this morning when I took the piece of paper out of the recipe binder and saw that I had made note of his editorial comments as well as his instructions.
As some of you might recall, my dad was an original. Here, for your Christmas reading pleasure, is a yuletide greeting of sorts, from the Great Beyond, from Charlie Lavia.
- 1 pound hamburger, 1 pound Graziano's pork sausage. ("Get it at Graziano's, not at Dahl's. They have it at Dahl's, but they'll screw you on the price. But it takes gas to drive to Graziano's, so, eh, just get it at Dahl's. It works out about the same. Heh heh.")
- Eggs. ("How many eggs? Jesus, Lisa, I don't know. Two eggs. Three eggs. Just whatever you've got.")
- A handful of breadcrumbs. ("Just pour it in your hand. What do you mean, different people have different-size hands? Not that different; don't ask so many questions. Can't you just be satisfied with an answer?")
- Grated cheese. ("What do you mean, what kind? What kind do you think?")
- Salt and pepper. ("More salt if you like salt. More pepper if you don't. Don't make a production out of it.")
- Some diced onions if you want. ("I know you don't like onions. I put onions in and I hear about it all damned day. Because you don't like onions, no one can have onions. Jesus. Just pick them out, like at McDonald's.")
- Garlic powder. ("I don't KNOW how much! Until it tastes right!")
- A little milk. ("Sometimes they end up too dry. Just put the milk on your hands and scoot everything around.")
"Mold them into balls and cook them. How big? How am I supposed to know? If you want to make them like your grandmother, make them like tennis balls. If you want to make them normal, then don't."
We'll eat meatballs tonight, and we'll all miss him.
Merry Christmas, Dad.