meatballs Tag



Before I break this less amiable truth about myself amidst my holiday break with family, I first want to say that in spite of what I’m about to confess, please believe that I’m an otherwise OK human being deep, deep within. I stare at leaves and generate deep thoughts. I lovingly ignore children only because I’m afraid of what I might do to them. And when presented with uncertainty, I always choose the recyclable bin to throw my ambiguously categorized trash… just in case. Because I heart earth. But…

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Let’s all be honest here.  Yes.  Including those of us who say we love to cook, and would ferociously defend the legitimacy of home-making Turkish kofta platter, Taiwanese gua bao, or even Italian duck prosciutto, once in a blue moon at least, let’s not kid ourselves.  In practicality, the song and dance of travelling to exotic and exhilarating corners of the world through a dialogue in our own kitchen is, most of the time, only romantic in theory.  At the end of the day, if you are any lucky, the flaming urge for such adventures mostly gets put out by a take-out menu amidst a stack of its own kind, that quietly settles in a kitchen drawer with can-openers and plumber-contacts.  Authentic, or not authentic.  Good, or no good.  Doesn’t matter.

That’s what normal people do.

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White Wine Meatball To The Rescue


Oh dear. Oh dear. Gather up guys, because do I have a funny story for ya. (Am I gonna tell you how my old layout dumped me on a post-it?)… No, I don’t want to talk about that asshole. (Awww, meatball’s going to tell us how you and him first met!)… NO! This isn’t Hallmark either. If we haven’t been properly introduced, this is more of a place… where my enthusiasm goes to die after too much saturated reality has popped its arteries (see my angry new banner?). But HEY! Back to that story…


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