Remember Me-at-Ball State?

The Meatball. Ah, the Meatball. It just brings me right back to the kitchen in the big cabin by the lake, in Minnesota, where I spent many of summer nights noshing on the culmination of our family’s perfected recipe.   The Meatball also refreshes childhood memories of Aunt Helen’s kitchen, and the way she shuffled about in those pink slippers. Meatballs also reminda me of a B movie from my childhood, but that is a different story. What is important is that the Meatball has landed in Fulham. 

You must be the short
depressed kid we ordered. 

Aside from the Meatball’s obvious and voluptuous culinary qualities, an indifferent observer must recognize that the golf-ball-of-delight has a cosmic significance of its own. It encompasses the perfect combination of ingredients that span the spectrum and that are always, in part, a secret.   The final product is something that may slide between thinly sliced pieces of fresh baked filone, dominate a bowl of al dente pasta of any variety, or be used as a substitute currency in a family game of Monopoly.