Saturday, I headed off a nervous breakdown by drinking a
bottle of wine to myself. I had failed miserably at my first attempt to make
Swedish Meatballs. That was irritating. It wasn’t so much that they didn’t turn
out, but more so because I recognized my problem right away, but just kept
going. Sometimes my stubbornness is borderline massochistic.
I was sautéing the onion for the meatballs when I realized
that I had chopped it too big. Big onions are counterproductive for
meat-balling, and- as I would later learn- thorough, even cooking. So, browning
meatballs that don’t want to stay balled is…. frustrating. Doing so when you
know you could have spent an extra 15 minutes to start over and do it right…
much more frustrating. Simmering them in gravy for what “has to be enough time,
it’s waaaay longer than the recipe noted, and the meat thermometer is the right
temp,” but still getting 45% meatball fallout for being pink…. “fuck it, I’m
eating them anyways and I really hope get I trichinosis and salmonella. Where’s
my wine?”
That said, the cooking failure, in and of itself, would not
have normally driven me to drink an entire bottle of wine. My lovely children
were the last little straw that broke this camel down. I had spent the entire
day with them, which was mostly good. Even when the witching hour strikes on
no-naptime days (as was the case on Saturday,) the Boy is manageable; using
some combination of distraction, bribery and fear will often keep him from
getting too out of hand. Girl, however, has not yet developed the same knack
for self-preservation. Let’s just say that they both decided to be rambunctious
little scamps at about the same exact time the first round of meatballs (and
dad) were ungluing in the kitchen. So, when confronted with alcohol abuse or
child abuse, I chose the former. (Don’t worry, the missus got home about the
time I was pouring glass two.)
Until next thyme, meatballs....
