Son #4 recently discovered meatballs. Homemade meatballs, frozen meatballs, plain or in tomato sauce, he views them all as round, juicy chunks of meaty joy.
Recently, he asked what kind of meatballs he'd been eating--the ones a friend brought over to fill my crock pot while I was coughing up a lung. Italian meatballs, I told him. Just regular meatballs. He said he'd heard of Swedish meatballs, and would like to try them.
I am a child of the 70s poker party culture, with a weakness for fondue, Chex mix and all those other foods that used to get passed around the bar while my sister and I watched from the railing. So, whipping up a batch of Swedish Meatballs sounded like just the thing for a lazy Saturday afternoon.
They are in the crock pot, now, making the whole house smell fabulous. I can't wait.
Son #4 is ready for the meatballs. He wants them. He can smell them. He is eager. But, he is still not really sure what they ARE, exactly.
"Are they really SWEET? Or are they sweet-ish?"
His third option, that they might be from Sweden, is probably just as far off. I think Swedish Meatballs probably were discovered in some suburban midwestern kitchen in 1958. But, hey, come 7:00 tonight, we'll be trying them out.