Swedish Meatballs

When I asked my mother how she came to read poetry to me in the garden, she very simply stated, “Because you liked it.” When I inquired why the Beethoven and Schubert, she again simply said, “You liked it.” I fondly remember description of movements from Beethoven’ Sixth: The rainfall, the thunder and lightening-all the way down to the scurrying of the little animals before the storm. I was dumbfounded at my mother’s naiveté, all the while in awe of her generosity of spirit.

For my part, my parenting was about presenting stimuli to enhance development. In my entire mother’s naiveté, there was this genuine loving mother who simply gave a child that child’s desire.

I don’t mean to pretend there were no conflicts. There were. I was sometimes willful, difficult at best. We didn’t always gel. I see commonalities of me from each of my parents. Honestly those were not always their best qualities either. It is just that now I choose to remember this generosity of spirit; this sometimes unconditional loving attitude. I remember, like it was yesterday. I remember being in the garden of fragrant spices and flowers. It was there that I first heard about God. She said that God was everything. I remember her telling me, “See the flowers, Kathy. Feel the warm breeze. Look at the green, bushy plants, the blue sky and the gliding clouds. This, all of this; this is God.”

My mother believes there is this all powerful, all loving God. She believes that not only does he love each and every hair of each of us. My mother simply believes God forgives each of us everything. She continues this unshakable belief that we are each headed to a marvelous place—the likes of which we cannot know because it is too beautiful for our mortal minds to comprehend. I am offering two of my favorite recipes: The first is her signature Swedish Meatballs. The other is one that fascinated me as a child; Baked Alaska.

Swedish Meatballs

1 lb. lean ground beef
½ to ¾ cups bread crumbs (just enough to make it sticky)
Salt and pepper to taste
A little water
½ teaspoon nutmeg
½ cup whipping cream-optional
2-3 tablespoons oil

Mix all ingredients except oil. The mixture should be sticky. Each meatball should be small, about the size of a tablespoon. Brown the meatballs in medium to high heat. When the meatballs are browned add the broth and the whipping cream. Simmer for 15 minutes.

Baked Alaska

Graham cracker pie crust
2-3 pints ice cream of your choice
3 egg whites
6 tablespoons sugar
¼ teaspoon salt

Pack the pie crust with 2 to 3 pints ice cream of your choice. Cover with foil or put in a large freezer bag for at least 2 hours. In a glass bowl whip the egg whites with salt until soft peaks form. Beating at high speed, sprinkle in sugar, 2 tablespoons at a time until sugar is completely dissolved. Beat until egg whites make still peaks. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Spread the meringue over the ice cream. Swirl or pull up points with the back of the spoon to make an attractive top. Place the pie in the oven for no more than 2 minutes until the meringue tips brown. Serve immediately.

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My father used to say that June was the rainiest month of the year. He has also said that it never rains all day. When the sun was out he did his carpenter work. When it rained he sat in his station wagon eating junk food and reading, he was an avid reader.

Our parents took turns watching us on the weekends. On my mother’s watch we went to the Art Institute or listened to classical music or something uplifting. On my father’s watch we had adventures. I remember once he took us to the Back of the Yards neighborhood. For some reason he told us to wait in the car. In those days people didn’t worry so much about kidnapping. And, yes it rained.

When the rain stopped, we were having one of those famous muggy hot Chicago days. I told my sister I was hot. She knew me well. She said, “You can’t get out,” I did anyways and my adventures began. I met a little boy who wanted to “connect” my freckles with a ball-point pen, another who stole my toy pink poodle, but the absolute best I heard music; a harmonica, banjo, and singing. I listened to the band until a huge (to me) woman came out saying “you don’t belong here!” and walked me to the house where my father was working.

I was so happy when he didn’t get mad. After she left he asked me if I had some excitement, I said, “Yes.” And then if I wanted pancakes Imagine pancakes and not being in trouble! I ran back and got my sister out of the car. We had a great time. Here’s the recipe from the lady who yelled at me and turned out to be dad’s favorite!

Pancakes

1 1/4 cups flour
2 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons double-acting baking powder
3/4 teaspoons salt
salad oil
1 1/3 cups milk
1 egg, slightly beaten
butter or margarine

In a large bowl with fork, mix first 4 ingredients; add 3 tablespoons salad oil, milk and egg and stir just until blended. Then slightly grease skillet with butter or margarine, making a few pancakes at a time, cook until bubbly and bubbles burst, edges will leak dry. Serve with dad’s favorites like blueberries, pecans, chocolate chips, maple syrup or preserves.