|The star of our show.|
71-year-old houses are such a blessing.
This has been going on for the last four weeks -- we, the picture perfect portrait of home owners in denial. To circumvent our noisy fixture, my date has suggested certain rules of
Problem is, most even-numbered days are cloudy here in Bermtopia this time of year.
My date and I are not Plumbing People. An air of profound foreboding falls over the house whenever one of us has the misforture to look quizzically under the sink or reach into a clogged garbage disposal. Most of the time, these sorties are brief and have a happy ending. We take a look-see, freeze up mentally and spiritually and retreat quickly, but bravely, with the rallying cry, "Let's call Steve!
Steve is our plumber god.
On the rare occasions we don't involve the plumber god, there is usually much water and wet towels, followed by the rallying cry, "Let's call Steve!"
So, I'm not sure what got into me Sunday when I Googled singing toilets and found a most helpful DIY website dedicated to all things terrible and potentially terminal related to these fixtures oh-so-necessary in our lives. Perhaps it was a mistaken impression that I would be somehow imbued with superhuman plumbing powers when I turned 60.
Anyway. I learned it was most likely the fill valve. Of course. How elementary. Why didn't I think of that?
I lifted it up gingerly while flushing the toilet to see if the baggie was an unsuspecting accompanist to our toilet's musical numbers -- and watched as a slender geyser of water shot up into the air. I quickly returned the bag to its rightful place. And, of course, went looking for a towel.
It was then I remembered my date proudly announcing that he fixed a dripping toilet problem we had last fall.
Better living through zip lock bag technology, I always say.
I regarded the zip locked toilet tank gravely, consulted my DIYer website, then looked back at our musical bathroom fixture. It was time:
"Let's call Steve."
We need a plumbing god intervention. . . preferably one without zip lock bags.
Of course, if you're Swedish, they're Swedish meatballs or Norwegian meatballs or Finnish meatballs. I think you get the picture.
One way or the other, these meatballs are must-have Scandinavian holiday fare. At least, growing up, they were in my family.
I'm willing to bet every Scandinavian family has their own version. Ours involves a mixture of ground pork, ground beef and/or ground veal, onion, bread crumbs, cream, allspice, ginger, nutmeg, egg and a sour cream-based gravy. Cooked, of course, in butter. And served on top of egg noodles awash in parsley and, you guessed it, butter.
(Note: Whole wheat noodles and EVOO this year as we are low-carbing it for awhile.)
We didn't get too much into the lingonberry scene, but that's a time-honored garnishment.
These are not dainty meatballs. These are the meatballs of Thor, Odin and the Valkyries. They are the stuff of Vikings, the meatball of sea-faring marauders, the meaty muse of Hans Christian Andersen and IKEA stores near and far.
They fill our homes with the timeless, lingering aromas of spice and browning butter, of comfort, family and tradition -- like so many special recipes handed down from one generation to another. I thought a lot about my mom and Nana Bailey, and my Danish great aunts and great-grandmothers, as I rolled and browned my New Year's Eve meatballs.
I wished them a Happy New Year. And thanked them for Danish meatballs.