My Grandmother's Balls

Ahem - now that I have your attention. Even though my last name ends in an "owski ", my mother was Italian, so I grew up in a house where there was always something wonderful cooking in the kitchen. Italians spend half their life cooking food & the other half eating & talking about food 

Grandma - head chef
and ball-maker

The head chef of my family was my Italian grandmother. Although she was headquartered in the second floor of her two-family home in queens (which was shared with my aunt, uncle & three cousins on the first floor apartment), most of her time was spent cooking in the finished basement of the house. This was her sanctuary - it had a full kitchen, a huge round dining table, and a living room area where the entire family (& sometimes several dozen other people) gathered for every holiday & birthday, as well as for weekly meals and of course, dinner every Sunday at 3 o'clock. (& you'd better not be late because once the pot's on, the macaroni will get "soft like worms if it over-cooks") 


 



Healthy kids eat Italian food

   Even though we only lived about ten blocks away, most of my life was spent at that house with my cousins and my grandmother. 

Grandma's basic take on food was that if you started off with  "the good" olive oil (virgin olive oil, of course), plenty of garlic (had to be fresh) & chopped parsley (don't forget - Italian flat parsley, not the curly kind), you had the makings of a great dish. 

If you bought the wrong parsley,
you were going back.








One of her best dishes (& my all-time favorites) was her famous "rice balls", which were only made for special occasions because of the amount of time they took to make. Thinking back, I guess if you're preparing 50 of anything, it probably would take a long time to make. 

Grandma guarding her balls

 Grandma would stand in that kitchen for hours making those balls, while we were playing & watching tv. First she would boil the rice & make it cool to a certain consistency, then chop the mozzarella into microscopic pieces, shred the prosciutto & then mix it all together with some pecorino romano cheese - all with her bare hands. Without measuring, she would shape 50-60 of the most perfectly shaped balls you ever layed your eyes on. Then came the coating. She hand-dipped each rice ball into egg whites, flour, another bath of egg whites, then roll it into a bowl of breadcrumbs, seasoned with more pecorino, chopped garlic & parsley. After all the balls were ready, she would have  2 large frying pans filled with hot oil  (wesson oil for frying, never the "good oil").

Fried with love, not deep fried

Then the balls went into the hot oil. (no deep frying for grandma - she paid special attention to each ball, turning each one individually with a fork to make sure they cooked all the way through & browned on the outside). As they were done, she'd gently lay them on a dish lined with paper towels to drain the oil. As soon as they'd start piling up, all of us kids would sneak up & grab one, enjoying the crispy outside and the soft inside, oozing with melted cheese & prosciutto, mixed with the spices & rice. No sooner than we'd grab them, grandma would yell at us, announcing that she knew 3 balls were missing. Busted. How did she know the exact number of balls she made? We were always baffled about that.

Grandma has the best balls

When we finally sat down at the dinner table, we would all look at each other & start with the double edged quips such as "can you pass me one of grandma's balls?" or "grandma's balls are the best balls I've ever seen" or "my balls are better than your balls". Grandma would get hysterical with our comments, and sometimes she would even chime in with "you'll never find balls like mine anywhere". We'd all bust out laughing. She was a good cook & a good sport.



Men may be hazardous
to themselves

 About  two years ago, I decided I would try making "the balls". myself. After about two hours of mixing, dicing, shredding, dipping & frying, my back was going into a spasm & my forehead was beaded with sweat. As I placed my last ball into the dish with the paper towels, I finally figured it out. She knew exactly how many balls she made because it took so much time, effort & love to make those damn balls - OF COURSE she knew exactly how many were in the dish! I knew how many were in my dish.


So if I ever decide to make those little suckers again, remember: keep your hands off my balls. Until they're on the dinner table, of course.