There’s magic in a meatball. In my Italian family, a meatball isn’t just beef, pork and veal. Your recipe gets mentioned in your eulogy.
Everyone’s grandmother makes the best meatballs. That’s what the priest told my cousin Gina before she gave the eulogy for my Grandma Josephine DiSalvia. But she was more than what she cooked. Yet that taste, that smell of garlic frying on a cast-iron skillet in a cramped kitchen of a South Philly row home on Carlisle Street as a city breeze blew through the screen door facing an alley, that’s what I’ll never forget.
