I have a confession.
A couple of months after moving to Los Angeles, I watched a quirky romantic comedy one evening and decided to revamp my online dating profile. Though I admittedly drank a few glasses of wine before starting my revisions, I was pleased with the outcome. It read: a Canadian meatball in an American sauce.
As an Italian-Canadian, I didn’t know that people really ate meatballs in their pasta sauce until disconcertingly late in my life. Italians eat the meatballs alone, sauceless. I remember watching Disney’s animation, Lady and the Tramp, and squinting in confusion as the dogs shared spaghetti, “heavy on-a the meat-a ball.”
I assured myself that this was a dish for dogs, of course they would want as much meat as possible. I find myself flustered now thinking back upon at my culinary disdain as a child watching a cartoon.
Every Sunday growing up, my family arrived at my nonna and nonno’s with our mouths drenched in saliva from the smell of garlic emanating from the house. My brothers and I greeted our grandparents with affection and haste, then sprinted to the table.
We devoured the polpette with desperate fervor. They were small brown spheres served on an unassuming white plate with an oil-soaked paper towel placed beneath. Their stark appearance only deepened their bold flavor. Inevitably, the plate was taken away before dinner, but they would always be returned to us in tightly-sealed Tupperware as we left for home.
A couple years ago, I went to my nonna’s house to start transcribing her recipes for future use. The ingredients for her food are simple, but the dictation ambitious. We made her polpette together as the broth for her tortellini in brodo simmered on the stove.
The recipe for Jospehine Nonni’s polpette is as follows: ground beef, ground pork, parmesan, parsley, basil, garlic, breadcrumbs, milk, eggs and olive oil. There is no context, order or measurements noted. She weighed the ingredients by hand. She tasted the raw meat to make sure there was enough fat and salt. She laughed at me when I told her that the smoking olive oil on the stove was carcinogenic.
My nonna has been serving her meatballs since the 1940s. “My mother and grandmother teach me when I was 15,” she told me on the phone when I called her recently to attempt an interview about the dish.
Josephine Nonni grew up on a farm in the mountains of Serra San Bruno in Calabria, Italy. Her family started making this dish because all the ingredients were available from their or their neighbors’ farms. She is now 89, living in Canada and almost deaf. Our conversation consisted of me screaming questions about her cooking process while she advised me to be sure I was drinking six glasses of water per day.
“Why don’t you put them in a sauce like they do here?” I yelled. She laughed, “Okay, bye-bye Chiara mia, I love you too!” Then she hung up.
I’ve taken in some of her tricks over the years. I occasionally taste the raw meat, though it still turns me off, and I’ve learned her process for determining the proper texture after the ingredients are mixed. She turns the meat around in her calloused hands with gentle intimacy. I do this now too, and it makes me feel like I am her at age 15 living on her family farm. I feel rustic and soothed from today’s stresses.
The meatball is pervasive in cuisines around the world. There are opposing theories regarding the history of the meatball. Some say that they originated in Asia, with dishes such as kofta providing ample evidence of their similarities. Others argue that the ancient romans developed the modern meatball. Regardless of origin, historians agree that spaghetti and meatballs is a distinctly American dish. These polpette do not go well with marinara sauce. Either the strong flavors of the meatballs or the sauce needs to yield to the other to balance the dish.
There’s a good life lesson in there somewhere.
I’ve lived in the U.S. for almost three months now, and I still feel out of place. I’m incredibly lucky to have been able to pursue my ambitions here, though my current quarantined lifestyle is certainly not what I imagined. Perhaps it’s me. Perhaps I’m afraid to ebb against the flow, to diminish my ingredients to make way for a new experience.
So, I made the meatballs. Exactly how my nonna used to. I feel pride and a connection to my family history when I sink my teeth into the same recipe my great-great grandmother made. I am linked with them; undivided across time and country. I called my nonna back.
“Chiara!” she admonished me. “Stop talking about meatballs, go pray, enjoy California, and go find a nice boyfriend!”
“I’m trying,” I say, laughing.
I’m still getting used to being in the sauce.