![]() That was the feeling I got watching Tommy Devito on Monday Night Football. Grandma would drop one on your plate, likely splashing you with sauce in the process - and then you’d eat.Īn hour later, gripped by a deadly food coma, you’d regret it. She’d craft these colossal meat spheres - easily as large as a softball each, and they had to clock in at almost a pound. They’re memorable for a lot of reasons, but I’ve never been able to get past their enormous size. I’ve tried over the years to replicate them, and still can’t get it right. ![]() I never got the recipe for those meatballs before her death. We’d sit down for the family meal and that giant pot of sauce, enough to feed 16 people was plonked on the table with a potholder underneath before she tottered into the kitchen once more to retrieve her legendary meatballs. “Stir the gravy for grandma, sweetie,” she’d say in her thick New York accent, as she lit another cigarette, dangling it alarmingly close to the pot of water she was boiling for pasta. Her wooden spoon was so old it had lost any concavity, now worn down into a flat paddle after decades of use. A stout Italian woman, cloth draped over her neck, stirring a pot of sauce in a swelteringly-hot kitchen. The most vivid memories of my paternal grandmother are remembered through a veneer of steam.
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