The high temperature in Minneapolis yesterday, according to a popular Facebook meme, was lower than that of Antarctica; and so I did what every ounce of my being said I should do.
I stayed in and cooked.
On the menu?
Spaghetti sauce and my father’s homemade meatballs.
“You gotta get in there, really squish it up good,” my dad would say. “Take them rings off.”
“Should I wash my hands?”
“Nah,” he’d say. “That’s where the flavor lies.”
He was joking, my dad; and the recipes from him are marked with his comments. “Add 13 peas”, says one recipe. “Add one mouthful of warm water.” “Simmer until Mumma wants to know just what you think you’re doing in there.”
Like father, like daughter, and I add my own comments to new recipes. “Feeds six adults or one teenager.” “One of The Boy’s favorites!”
I copied my cookbook – a large three-ring binder full of recipes, notes, and stains – for my son a couple years ago. “For My Son,” says the spine. “On the occasion of his 28th birthday.”
“You’re weird,” he’d said, smiling.
“Yes,” I said.
I send a picture of the finished sauce to him now.
“Looks yum,” he writes.
“It IS yum,” I write. “There’s a jar for you. Come by tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he says.
It’s terribly cold outside. But inside, it’s a kitchen.