Not a meat ball recipe.

I enjoy spending time in the kitchen. In fact I find it somewhat therapeutic at times. I really should do it more often. Years ago I decided, for some reason unknown to me, to make some meatballs. Spaghetti and meatballs is always a good meal right? I asked a buddy of mine, Brad Thomas, for a little advice on the subject early one afternoon and a plan was formed. Just a quick trip to the store for a few things and I would be home to cook dinner for Shannon (my ex-wife) and her friend Euginia who apparently got invited to dine with us while I was at the market tending to the details of this recipe.

Although this is a story about meatballs and how I prepared them I am not giving any recipes here. That's not what this is about exactly. I was in the kitchen having a good old time with my ingredients. I was chopping up onions, mincing garlic, cracking eggs (one handed thank you), mixing cereal flakes with Italian spices, squishing meat between my fingers... I was making meatballs!!! I was in my element. Things were smelling like they wanted to be eaten. Sizzling little balls of meat waiting to balance atop a mound of pasta. Needless to say I was proud of myself. Now keep in mind this little tale happened back in my drinking days. I left out a few of the details that I didn't think were necessary to the story. Perhaps I'll throw them in anyway. Brad and I crafted this plan over cocktails. And back then, when I was in my element I was mostly loaded. I'm not trying to make any excuses, I'm just saying.

After I ladled sauce over a few plates of pasta (I was trying to avoid telling you that the sauce was store bought but why should I lie about such a thing. This is a story about meatballs!!!) I put a couple of the brown little guys on there as well and waited for the response. It came. It wasn't exactly the ovation I was looking for, but it came. It was more of an, "eh..?" moment than anything. Not that I was expecting a big hoopla or anything. I was kind of anticipating a grunt of pleasure or a hint of satisfaction. The balls themselves looked good, smelled good but there was a little something odd with the flavor. The word "odd" is never a good word to use when describing food. Not understanding where the odd sweetness came from, I reviewed the ingredients in my head. When shopping for Corn Flakes to use as a binder for the balls I grabbed "Frosted Flakes" by mistake. I had made spaghetti with "Sweat balls".

Happy Thanksgiving and remember to remove the giblets before you bake your bird...