Sunday, June 10, 2007

Meatballs for the Meatballs

Within about five seconds of dinner being served tonight, the blog police strongly suggested that it be photographed. At least they don't say "Veee stronk-ly such-gest you take zee peek-cher," in baby-Nazi imitations. Still, those kids are all over me about this thing. There was more than a little competition over whose dinner would get photographed. Oy.

We had Vietnamese grilled pork balls from Hot Sour Salty Sweet with rice, and a couple of minor sides. I made a mango salsa (I've had a bit of a mango kick the last couple of weeks, but still not at the level of my fennel bender), which was a good mango salsa... but maybe not quite the thing for the meatballs. My kids are not so open-minded about food that they had the mango salsa as well. They like to drench their meatballs with fish sauce and lime juice, and they're all set. My boy tore the inside of his mouth up last week (torn up cheek, fat, raw lip, long-ish story), so acid-y foods have not been too appealing with all the stinging they create in his raw mouth. He was just a fish sauce fella tonight.

Dinner finished with my crazy neighbor calling to tell me she had pie for us. A telephone call with her usually requires that the telephone be held at least a foot away, since she talks at her normal shout. Just as you think it's safe to pull the phone in to reply is almost invariably when she shouts something that she forgot to add at first. She told me to come to the fence, and she would come out her side door and give me pie. I went out our front door and over to the fence, and waited obediently while she undid the combination of locks (not a combination of locks... just about six different deadbolts, all requiring keys) to unlock her side door. Then we had a little dance of both of us standing on tiptoe to hand the pie over the fence, and a pantomime as we both went back inside of me waving and shouting thank you and her nodding and making a sort of "oh, it's nothing'" sort of gesture. And I went to the back of the kitchen and threw the two slices of grasshopper pie in the trash. I may be a no-good whore (with nothing to eat!), but I'm not too keen on eating food from 1) people who have threatened to kill me 2) people who are deeply insane and 3) from people who share their homes with large quantities of rats. Picky, picky, I know.

I made a strawberry syrup last night so that the kids and I could make strawberry lemonade today. It's very pretty, although I wonder if I think that because it's almost the same color as Campari, and I really like Campari. Maybe it's because I'm a bitter girl and I like bitter things, but I like Campari. I can, however, see the point of view of a friend of minewho asked for a taste of my Negroni (mostly because I was so clearly enjoying the hell out of it), made a face and said that it sort of tasted like vomit. I wouldn't drink it if I agreed with her (ew), but I do see that it's really not everyone's thing. And once again... I've digressed to an absurd degree. The strawberry lemonade was a limited success. It tasted, smelled and looked good, but my poor son's beat-up mouth was not made happy by having an acidic drink. You can also see my yellow roses in enthusiastic bloom past it. My crazy neighbor likes yellow flowers. Just thought you might like to know.

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