LOMBARDO FAMILY MEATBALLS SECRET

Stanley Tucci sweet corn buttering~The Lovely Crum fruitcake~my mother-in-law's lime-flavored JELL-O with pears, fluff, and frog eye dessert salads

Photos by The Fry Family Food Co., Jason Leung, and Emiliano Vittoriosi at Unsplash

By TOM LOMBARDO (lombardot@earthlink.net), the editor of After Shocks: The Poetry of Recovery for Life-Shattering Events, an anthology featuring 152 poems by 115 poets from 15 nations. He is Poetry Editor of Press 53, a literary publisher in Winston-Salem, N.C. Tom lives in midtown Atlanta, where he works as a freelance medical editor. His poems, criticism, essays, and other nonfiction have been published worldwide. He’s a Pushcart Prize winner, a creative writing college instructor, and was the founding editor-in-chief of WebMD, the world’s most widely used health website. Today, Tom’s children, Lucia and Sante, are at least the third generation to make meatballs this way.

In 2000, young Lucy Lombardo, age 4, with cousin Alyssa, shows Tom, her chef, that she call roll with the best of ‘em, too.

Growing up Italian, you learn the secrets of Italian cooking. My extended family was just like one of those you see in the movies—loud, screaming at each other, insulting, cursing—and that's during the hugging and kissing part of family gatherings—and of course, eating great Italian food.

My grandmothers—one of whom never spoke a word of English to me—taught me many things, but the most enduring is how to prepare the perfect meatball. There is a very important secret to cooking meatballs—stato segreto—and both my maternal and paternal grandmothers knew that secret. Many Italian Americans are ignorante of this secret. It's not universally known, like the names of all the Mafia Dons are known. When I meet an Italian, the conversation inevitably turns to food, and I test their Italiano-anima by asking how they cook their meatballs. Their answer either earns my respetto or my odioso disprezzo. 

Recently, one of my wife's brothers (my wife's family is not Italian) married an Italian who is always bragging about her mother's cooking, making a big ostentazione, and showed me a cookbook that her mother had made of all of her recipes. When I met my new sister-in-law's mother, I asked her how she cooked her meatballs, and she failed my test. When I told her the secret, she dismissed it, wouldn't even try it. Putano! She will go on cooking lousy meatballs because Italians have this culture of the Testadura. 

Testa – head. Dura – hard. 

The testadura goes back to the Roman Empire, as Nero wasn't fiddling, he was cooking meatballs without my family's secret, and then centuries later all those testadura Italian popes, sending off Crusade after disastrous Crusade, looking for the lost secret to great meatballs.

Filipe Silva Uplash

And of course, the past, present, and future prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, who argues with his wife in the media about his concubinas' meatballs. That's a testadura.

A HINT

This secret will liberate your Italian cooking, and your friends will marvel at the taste of your meatballs, and will insistently ask about your Italian forebears. There are many secrets in my family besides the secret to great meatballs. 

I asked my father once if he knew anyone in the mafia. These are the things Italian-American boys ask their dads: Were you in the Mafia? Did you know Joey Gallo or Paul Castellano, the Don who was whacked and died with a cigar clenched in his teeth? Anyone in our family a wise guy? My father heard that a cousin or uncle had been killed by the mafia. Well, I was disappointed, but recently, at a Pittsburgh family reunion, I learned the exciting truth behind my father's vague memories. 

My father's cousin Vinnie told me about a cousin who was gunned down in an alley. This would have been one of my father's cousins, too. No one was ever apprehended, and Vinnie said that this cousin was a low-level numbers runner, which means he was probably killed for skimming some of the money he collected or maybe cheating a winner of his earnings. Vinnie wouldn't say any more, despite my probing. So, why this cousin got himself whacked will never be known.

Another of my father's cousins, Caroline, told me the story of her father, who was my father's uncle. His name was Angello Lombardo, and he was murdered after a poker game, shot dead by a woman. He left six children and his widow, who was Caroline's mother. Caroline, now in her mid-80s, is the last living member of that group. She bore no shame after all those years in telling me the story. It was the first time my father had heard the real story, too. Caroline's father was 26 when he was murdered. No one was ever arrested. He left the card game after being accused of cheating. A woman followed him out and killed him behind the garage where the poker game was held. 

Muhammad Ali Unsplash

Caroline was not sure if it was cheating at cards or on his wife that got him killed. Caroline's mother never re-married (no wonder, with six kids! Maledetto!). Caroline herself seemed in good spirits. Her husband was there with her. He was not Italian. Polish, I think. No meatballs for him. He wouldn't appreciate what I am about to reveal.

THE PROCESS

First, you must mix veal in with the ground beef, and use a good cut of ground beef. Ground round works, or if you can afford it, ground sirloin. Some people also add ground pork, but I don't. But you must add ground veal. Why? Ground veal tastes great! But more important, it is very smooth, and softens the texture of the ground beef. Ground round, ground veal. About half-and half, or you could cut back to one-third ground veal, which my wife insists on because she doesn't like the way the calves have their forelegs clipped off so they can't use their muscles, thus keeping the meat on their bones nice and tender. That bothers me, too, but meatballs without veal are not meatballs. I don't lose any sleep over these poor bleating calves, but you won't be able to use the secret to great meatballs if you are a testadura and refuse to use veal. Vaffanculo! So, stop reading right now. After all, if everyone knew the secret to great meatballs, it wouldn't be so special anymore, eh? Capice?

Graphe Tween Unsplash

Seasoning the meatballs? Some people obsess over this, but it's not that important, and I'll get to the reasons for that in the secret part. Here's what I mix into my meatballs: some bread crumbs, not the seasoned kind, just plain. If you're a purist, you will grind your own bread crumbs like my mother and grandmothers did, saving the stale bread in a bag just for this purpose. I don't. I use the plain bread crumbs from the store. I season the meatballs with finely chopped parsley and just a little bit of grated onion. I add a raw egg for each pound or two of ground meat. Notice what's missing: No garlic in the meatballs, prego! You'll see why in a minute. Most Italians who do not know the secret of great meatballs ruin their own meatballs by over-seasoning. You do not need to season the meatballs too much because the result of the secret—meatballs are seasoned as they cook in the sauce. 

Once you have the ground beef, the ground veal, the bread crumbs, the eggs, the seasonings in a bowl, then, you dig in with your bare hands. Forget the plastic gloves. You gotta feel the meat and the squishy eggs. And you mix it all together for several minutes, until it's nice and tight. Tight is the feel you want. Tight like Silly Putty. Tight like it squishes through your fingers without breaking up. Come over to my house next time I make meatballs, and I'll show you. Bring a nice Chianti.

THE SAUCE

So, before we get to the actual secret . . . at this point in the cooking, you must start your sauce. My wife, who is more organic than Barbara Kingsolver, likes me to make sauce with heirloom tomatoes. Great. If you can get them. But they are expensive, and they are not available all year round. Sauce with meatballs is not really a summer dish, so, you must learn how to make sauce with other kinds of tomatoes. 

Barbara Kingslover Eating-Local Guru

I don't use canned tomatoes. I use a brand of tomatoes called Pomi®, imported from Italia. They come in boxes, and when you look on the side for ingredients, it says "Tomatoes." That's it. No preservatives. No additives. No salt. Just tomatoes. Grown in Italian soil. I use the Pomi® crushed tomatoes, so that there are pieces of tomatoes in the sauce. That makes a thicker sauce. Season your sauce however you normally do. I use garlic, ground black pepper, some finely chopped onion, bay leaves, fresh basil, fresh parsley—how much? You know, enough! Basta! Lasciami in pace! Whatever you like. Experiment! Sauce is sauce. I've had so many different flavorings of sauces over the years, and most of them are edible. Except at Olive Garden. I hate their sauce. Don't go there. My mother told me one day that she likes Olive Garden, but she has early stages of dementia. 

Garlic, ground black pepper, onion, bay leaves, fresh basil, fresh parsley, and just a little bit of salt. I've also on occasion added a couple of carrots, not for flavor, but because I've heard that carrots will absorb some of the acidic taste. I don't always add the carrots because I don't really believe this lore. I've eaten the carrots at the end, and they don't taste acidic to me. Some people add a little sugar. I don't, but sugar won't kill your sauce. Some people like ground white pepper instead of black pepper. Some like the hotter ground red pepper, fra diavolo. Whatever turns you on. I'm no testadura. Make your sauce. Turn on the heat, and get the sauce simmering, uncovered, in a large saucepan. The simmering sauce is essential to the secret.

THE SECRET

Now here's the secret . . . . So you know how to roll meatballs, right? You just pull out some of the mixture of ground beef, ground veal, egg, breadcrumbs, parsley, onion, and you roll it in your palms. It's best to conduct this activity with other family members so you can argue about how large to make the meatballs. Size does matter, but not to the flavor. More on this later.

Then, you drop the meatballs RAW into the simmering sauce. 

That's the secret. RAW into simmering sauce. 

Do not brown the meatballs first.

This is the mistake that most Americans make. They fry—or brown—their meatballs first. Idiots! And some Italians do it, too. Cretino! Browning the meatballs is very bad for the flavor. 

Greeks brown their meatballs. And that's why the Romans conquered them. A great empire does not last very long if it browns its meatballs.

Now here's what the secret to great meatballs enables: transfer of flavor. I call it communicatione gustatore. Think of the surface of the meatball as a permeable membrane in a chemistry experiment. When you drop a raw meatball into simmering sauce, the flavor from the sauce enters the meatball as it cooks. At the same time, the flavor from the meat enters the sauce as it cooks. Because the meatball is raw, this transfer can take place. 

If you brown the meatball first, you seal the surface of the meatball and transfer of flavor cannot take place. Capice? Oh, yes, browned meatballs will cook, but the flavor of the sauce will not enter the meatballs, and the flavor of the meatball will not enter the sauce. You will have two entities cooking in the same pot, but they will cook separately. It's not only bad chemistry, it's not elegante! And it ain't making great meatballs. It’s like having a husband and the neighbor’s wife in bed together, nude, but no sex. They get a good night’s sleep, but nothing passes between them.

For this process to work, your sauce must be simmering when you drop the meatballs into it, because if it's not simmering, the raw meatballs will break up and you will end up with meat sauce, not sauce with meatballs. The eggs and breadcrumbs help hold them together as you drop them raw into the simmering sauce.

The meatballs take 2 to 4 hours to cook this way, simmering at very low heat, with frequent stirring, and here's where size matters: The larger the meatballs, the longer they take to cook. You know when they're done by tasting. After a couple of hours, the way to do this is to invite some family members into the kitchen, remove one meatball, and then fight over who gets to taste it. When I cook meatballs, my two children, Lucia e Sante, are usually in the house. When it's time to taste the meatball, I call out loudly, "Who wants to taste the meatball to see if it's done?" and they both run in and argue over who gets to be the taster. Of course, as an enlightened second generation Italian-American, I slice the meatball precisely in half, so they each get an opinion, and so I can see inside. Only after they leave the kitchen calling each other stupido, do I test another meatball myself, not because I don't believe them, but because I love meatballs. 

If the meat is cooked all the way through, you're virtually done. You can simmer them longer if you like, but stir the sauce often so that the sauce doesn't burn in the pan. When you test the meatball by cutting it in half, if they are done right, they will have some of the color of the sauce in their cores. Get it? The sauce enters the meatballs! Capice? And the meatball contributes its meaty juices, mooing and bleating, to the sauce.

I believe that Italian sauce tastes better the following day. The flavors seem to pop a bit more as the sauce sits, and the same is true for sauce with meatballs. So, if you have the luxury, cook the meatballs a day ahead. However, if your surname is Lombardo or Santillo, you'd better put them under lock and key overnight because Lombardos will go into your refrigerator and eat the meatballs right out of your sauce—even right in front of you, boldly and unapologetically, while calling you names like cornuto, and giving you the sign with forefinger and little finger raised, and the only way to stop them is to whack them—and by the morning you will be missing either meatballs or family members.

I usually make smaller meatballs. My brother Mike and my cousin Scotty make large meatballs. I make small ones because they cook faster, and if I'm making meatballs at 4 p.m. for my wife and kids to eat at 7 p.m., they gotta be small so they will cook faster. Plus, you can impale the smaller meatball on your fork, then roll a bunch of spaghetti around it, and put the entire glob into your mouth, unless my wife is watching, and she will scream and call you porco sciatto, even though she's not Italian.

I've already taught my children, Lucia e Sante, the secret and they help me squish the meat, roll the balls, drop them RAW in the simmering sauce, and stir for hours, but I must watch them closely. They are Lombardos. During dinner, the meatballs get gobbled up, grow fewer in number, diminishing, down to one left, that's when they fight over who gets the last meatball, and I smile, knowing that I've done my job well, that I'm buono padre.

A TIP

And here's another tip: Raw meatballs freeze very well. So, when I make meatballs, I make a lot of them. They're such a mess to make—all that meat, eggy and gooey, on your hands—you might as well. A month or two later, start up a sauce, get it simmering, and drop the frozen raw meatballs right into that simmering sauce. Frozen meatballs really don't take that much longer to cook. But remember, raw meatballs into the simmering sauce. Never brown a meatball! If you ever brown a meatball again—pagliaccio!

Now you know the secret of great meatballs. If you're already cooking your meatballs this way, then you've known this secret and you live in benedetto famiglia. But if you've never known this secret, try it. I guarantee that you will never go back to the fryball/dryball method. If you are Italian, then you probably already have a meatball technique you use, and you are a testadura, undoubtedly, and will not pay any attention to this, so andare caga mare.

For dessert? Pizzelles. Better for your soul than Holy Communion. Pizzelles cannot be made or eaten by non-Italians. Sorry. I will never reveal the secret to great pizzelles. 

Editors’ Note: In the 1980’s, I worked with Tom at Whittle Communications in Knoxville, Tennessee. Back then, I didn’t know he wrote poetry. I didn’t know he wrote prose. I didn’t know he could cook. The Tom I know today writes beautifully funny and touchingly elegant nonfiction prose, like what he wrote for Vintage Morels here. Someday, my fond hope is that I’ll enjoy his marvelously sounding meatballs with a glass of Italian wine, all the while talking over the good old days.

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STANLEY TUCCI CORN BUTTERING

I’ve loved sweet corn since the days I used to work for Green Giant Co. in LeSeur, Minnesota, and would buy it off a concrete slab loaded with truckfulls of corn just harvested from corn fields. And I love Stanley Tucci’s stories about food. In food celeb Tucci’s family, corn buttering is not done with a butter knife. A piece of homemade bread was buttered and then used to slather the salted ear of corn. Thus, in true Italian fashion, two dishes were created out of one, the ear of corn being the first dish and the homemade bread—now saturated with the melted butter, salt, and sweetness from the buttered kernels—being the second. 

Randy Fath Unsplash

THE LOVELY CRUMB

With the winter holidays approaching, Jane’s Famous Fruitcakes are a goodie that will enhance any festivities. They’re made these days by a friend, Carden Bradley, in Knoxville, Tennessee, the founder of The Lovely Crumb. She uses an old family recipe by a woman named Jane, her mother, created this recipe more than 60 years ago from her own grandmother’s recipe. Great southern bakers were they, who made fruitcakes in the 1950’s.

DESSERT SALADS: FLUFF, FROG EYE & MORE

Having been raised in the Midwest and having married a woman from Iowa, I was treated to my mother-in-law’s zippy lime-flavored Jell-O and pear salads. Thus was my introduction to dessert salads. Come to find, there are all sorts of them and they remain culinary curiosities to me to this day. Such salads were popularized in potluck-heavy Midwest states such as Minnesota, Indiana, the Dakotas, and Iowa.

Frog Eye Salad

Dessert salads are made with Cool Whip, Jell-O, candy bars, pretzels, canned fruit, nuts, and more. They are immensely popular and are often the first dishes to disappear at parties. Made famous at church gatherings and lunch counters like those in 1937 at F.W. Woolworth department stores in Indiana, these salads are the recipes that retro dreams are made of. Today, Salt Lake City is the Jell-O capital of the U.S. It wrestled the title away from Des Moines recently, but my mother-in-law surely knew decades ago that her state’s capital was always the true title holde—and would always be.

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