A few years ago, I happened to meet a little Italian lady named Lena. She was in need of therapy, but her only interest was cooking, and making sure everyone knew what a great cook she was. She insisted that, more than any therapy we could offer, she needed to make something for us. So her therapy became cooking.
We brought in all the ingredients she asked for, and she set to work, explaining how things were done in her kitchen, and in her mother’s and grandmother’s kitchens before that. There was very little measuring, just a handful of this, a bit and a pinch of that. It was a wonderful afternoon session, and we all learned more than she did, I’m sure.
When she was done, we were treated to the most delicious meal of spaghetti and meatballs. She made sure that we wrote down her instructions, so we would always get it right, and any failure would not be a reflection on her.
I’ve had Lena’s recipe for meatballs in my little flip-book for several years now. It’s one of my favorites. When I pull it out, I remember that I must only buy freshly ground pork, the meat and spices must be mixed with my hands, and a handful of parmesan thrown in makes it perfect.
