Meatballs
Meatballs. Meatballs of youthful recollections were, naturally, those of my Italian mamma, on Sunday mornings. I'd be still in bed when the aroma would waft up the stairs, and through the wall partitions to lull my nostrils. "It's Sunday morning," the meatballs would declaim. "Get your ass out of bed and taste one of us." And I would go downstairs, ladle one big one onto a small plate, perhaps add a little extra tomato sauce and black pepper, and enjoy a preview of coming meatball attractions of the Sunday afternoon meal.
A few hours ago, I myself made a pot of meatballs, following from memory my mamma's recipe for polpette, not forgetting the added egg, grated cheese, moistened stale bread, garlic, red pepper. And, mamma mia!...the aroma was the same, the taste is the same. It's no consolation for mamma's being long gone, but her meatballs survive, and that's no small thing.