Mundanity, Motivation, and Meatballs

The art of making weekday dinners novel

By the time second grade rolled around, I knew I was middle class simply by how Mom put our lunches together. Every day, we received a small paper bag with 4 Ziplock baggies filled with the same thing: a whole-wheat sandwich with mayonnaise and baloney, carrots that smelled like a pool, dusty grapes, and a jumble of disembodied Teddy Graham parts. I had a quarter, maybe two for a carton of milk. My food paled in comparison to my companions’ fat and golden Twinkies, packages of personalized pizzas (all hail the Lunchable!), and soft pebbles full of liquified citric acid and sugar called Gushers. Cool kids got processed food in abundance and therefore always had something to trade: Goldfish, Oreos, name-brand potato chips, and the lovely Uncrustables I drooled over (circular sandwiches made of white bread, seedless jelly, and peanut butter smooth as silk). 

My poorest friend Ruth got sandwich bread with a swipe of mustard on one side, a swipe of ketchup on the other, and a single slice of American cheese as the only filling. Her seven other siblings got the exact same thing and she claimed everyone loved it. But one day Ruth got baloney in that cheese, mustard, and ketchup sandwich. The look on her face—relief, hunger, pride, joy—as she pulled the surprise morsel from her weathered grocery bag amazed me. I saw firsthand just how familiarity breeds contempt. I got baloney every day and it never made me look at my sandwich that way.  

The small prefab kitchen of my childhood was a lesson in efficiency, routine, and sameness. There was one window tucked in the corner overlooking the neighbor’s vast pool, a forbidden oasis on the hot and soggy Midwest afternoons that required a sprinkler to survive. To the right of this view was our cramped and pool-less backyard, fit with a big oak in the center, a sandbox, and a tiny garden. Winter was long and wearying; a series of cold, short days with the sun setting into white snowbanks around 5 or often 4 pm. Mom thawed frozen chicken breast and sloshed cans of curry and coconut milk into a skillet on these days. On Fridays, we argued about where to get pizza, and on Sundays, we got the ten-dollar platter at Taco Bell to feed the entire family. Pop (not soda) was not allowed because it was an extra expense. Mom moved fast enough around the kitchen to indicate she derived no real pleasure in being there. I parked myself at the laminate countertop to watch her, looking for signs of the romance I read about in books or saw in movies: wistful glances at the stew, splotched recipes written by grandma, or an apron smeared in blood-red homemade tomato sauce.

One day, I got exactly that. An early winter darkness smothered out the sun as mom pulled a chicken out of the oven. It was resting in a camping enamelware vessel with white speckles and handles. The breasts were barely golden, freckled with pepper and surrounded by juicy carrots and quartered russet potatoes. We had chicken for what seemed like every day of our lives, but never like this. The bird appeared out of place at our table, like it belonged to some perfect TV family and not us. But something came to life in me at the sight of it, some childish desire to be part of a family that celebrates the mundane by lighting candles, making bread, writing recipes in leather journals, and never, ever taking the same old lunches to school. Something in me felt right at home.

Stock for meatballs

Why cooking romances some but not others is a question I have pondered. Reasons given are a lack of time, creative talent, money, and basic skill. As someone who once hated cooking and now loves it, I know such excuses by heart.

Much of what drains midlife of its color is the feeling of sameness that grown-up living requires: meals, bills, toilet cleaning, dentist appointments, oil changes, and taxes. Cooking can feel like just another physical burden with no immediate reward. Some, however, whether by choice or by nature, are not eroded by the sameness. Instead, it motivates them. A special habit of attentiveness graces these souls. We are all given the same raw materials as Julia Child. Cooking requires having an imagination.

Sometimes a change of shape is all it takes. I’ve said before that ground meat is perfect for the regular old weekday hunger that pinches the stomach Monday through Friday. But it’s also good for the deeper kind of hunger that yearns for variety. Ground meat can become just about anything: ragu, Thai larb, deconstructed Shepherd’s Pie, and others. On days when that deeper hunger calls, the very same pound of ground beef ordinarily used for taco bowls or cheeseburgers can become a meatball. 

Now. In my opinion the term “meatball” is deceptive, for truthfully, no ball of ground meat ever stays spherical once browned, but a girl can try. Here are my best shaping suggestions, none of which require fancy olive oil or a special pot.

Thaw meat in the fridge // My final evening chore is to open my freezer in search of some packet of meat to thaw for the next day’s dinner. Whenever I forget to do this I am forced to thaw meat in a bucket of cold water over the hour before my planned cook time. While this isn’t the end of the world, I find soaking the frozen ground beef does make for a mealy texture. So: 24 hours before you plan to cook your meatballs, move that meat to the fridge.

Wet your hands before forming spheres // Deb Perelman and Kenji López-Alt taught me this trick and it does make a difference. After mixing the meatball ingredients, wet your hands under a faucet or in a bowl of lukewarm water. With damp hands, form the meat into five or six equally-sized balls, wetting hands again whenever the meat sticks to your fingers. These meatballs are large by design. I find that they are more tender and flavorful on the inside because they don’t overcook too easily.

Go for pyramid // This is the real trick: brown the ball on three “sides” averaging three to five minutes per side. You will want a pair of nice tongs for gently turning the meatballs. What will emerge is a shape more like a pyramid than a planet but who gives a shit. This is weeknight cooking, and you’ve been nice enough to make meatballs. 

This recipe is our favorite new addition to the regular weekday round-up. Whenever I want something special without having to go out and buy fancy things, this is what I make. You can use panko instead of cornmeal, regular sugar instead of maple, real tomatoes instead  of tomato paste, and so on. Ground beef, especially if it is on the 80/20 variety (80 percent lean and 20 percent fat) is forgiving, flexible, and oh so novel when treated right. And a bonus: if you don’t turn the heat up too high, the grease splattering is very, very minimal.

Meatballs in Broth & Polenta

serves 2

Ingredients

1 pound ground beef (80% lean, 20% fat)

1 teaspoon smoked paprika

1 teaspoon garlic powder

1 teaspoon onion powder

1/2 teaspoon chili powder

1 tablespoon + 1 teaspoon cornmeal

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon sugar

1/8 cup tomato paste

1 teaspoon chili powder

1 egg

Olive oil

Grits or polenta 

1/4 cup parmesan

1 bunch chard

3 tablespoons butter

Parmesan rind (optional)

Special Tools

Tongs

Dutch oven or stock pot (a pot with high sides is preferable to minimize the splattering of grease)

Technique

Thaw Meat // One night before cooking, take meat from freezer and place in fridge. If thawing meat the same day, place packet in a bowl of ice-cold water for 45 minutes to an hour before cook time.

Mix & Form Meatballs // Add thawed meat to a large bowl along with spices, salt, cornmeal, egg, and sugar. With rings and bracelets off, mix ingredients together with hands until everything is thoroughly combined. Wash and dry hands. Take out a dinner plate and fill a small bowl with water. Wet both hands a little in the water and then, grabbing a small handful of the meat mixture, gently press and roll into a ball that fits nicely in the palm of a closed hand. One pound should make about 5 to 6 meatballs. Don’t worry: the broth will keep these nice and moist. Wet hands again, or whenever meat sticks to fingers.

Brown Meatballs // Cover surface of a Dutch oven or cast iron with 1 to 2 tablespoons of oil. Turn heat to medium. Once oil shimmers, gently place all meatballs in pot with tongs. Allow to cook untouched for 5 minutes or until a warm brown crust forms. Then, very gently wriggle meatballs free with tongs and shift over so that browned sides are perpendicular to the pan. Wait another 3 to 5 minutes until second side is similarly browned. The meatball will slouch some on the second side, leaving a third and final “side” to cook. Wriggle the meatball once more and turn it to that final side, leaving until browned completely.

Like so.

And so.

Cook Polenta // While browning meatballs, cook grits, polenta, or rice according to packaging instructions. Season water as for pasta until pleasantly and lightly salty. Parmesan rinds are a nice addition here to flavor grains. While grains cook, destem and roughly chop chard. Grate parmesan as well. 

Season Broth // Once browned, move meatballs to the outer rim of pot and add a fresh drizzle of oil to the center. Add tomato paste to oil and cook until darkened (rust red is a good sign). Add broth and mix paste in with liquid. Turn heat to medium-high or until a gentle simmer takes place.

Wilt Chard // After 15 to 20 minutes of simmering broth, add chard to liquid. Wait until chard is wilted but still very bright green (2 to 3 minutes).

Season Grains // Once polenta is fully cooked, add a 1/4 cup parmesan cheese to pot and stir to combine. Add butter. Taste and adjust seasoning as needed, making sure to add ample black pepper. Remove the parmesan rind if one was added.

Plate // Once both polenta and meat are finished, add a big scoopful of polenta to a serving bowl. Pour broth and meatballs over polenta. Serve hot and enjoy with a bright, effervescent bottle of chilled red. Beaujolais is always nice here.

Et voilà!