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In France, we've been back in confinement since October 30th and will be in lockdown for a projected 8-12 weeks. I've been feeling a bit homesick lately; it's been fourteen months since we moved from New York City. I consider her home after eleven years of grinding, building, hustling, and becoming a grown-ass-woman. While I don't miss the rude rents, gigantic rats, trash, the MTA, and other disrespectful elements of life in the city, I do MISS the direct-ass candor, friendliness, hustle, uniqueness, and the no-fucks-given vibes of my New Yorkers. Now that we're in confinement again, I'm mostly missing my friends—my chosen family. When I feel homesick, I like to make meatballs and gravy (red sauce). It reminds me of my friends, Mike, who hosts magnificent family suppers, and Yale, whose favorite meal is spaghetti and meatballs. This dish also reminds me of the numerous Italian-American old school restaurants all over the city, and, oddly enough, Texas. Each time I twirl spaghetti around my fork, I'm comforted by the memories the dish holds. As a kid, I grew up in El Paso, Texas, and my mom cooked mostly Korean food. She is an incredible cook and provided delicious meals with the small budget she had. Despite everything she went through, she alway made sure my sister and I felt cared for and loved. My mom would take us shopping for non-Korean foods in the bulk aisles of Sam's Club. As a child of the nineties, before the age of even dial-up internet (in our house at least), going to Sam's Club was an adventure and a luxury. There was always crazy shit at Sam's, a trampoline hanging on the ceiling, tons of books, random ass crystals and jewelry, and lots of food. The best part about Sam's for me was the food samples from the ladies parked at the end of the aisles. These ladies were always older queens dressed in aprons, hairnets, and plastic gloves. They'd hand us teeny plastic containers with small spoons filled with various frozen foods covered in canned sauces that they heated up on their electric stoves. Taquitos with canned salsa, cream puffs (choux pastry) with a frozen cream filling, cream cheese with a chutney-esque jam served atop a buttery cracker. These flavors were new to me, and each little bite further expanded my knowledge of food. In this warehouse store with harsh overhead fluorescent lighting that Mariah Carey would abhor, I luxuriated. I read all of the jars of spices, I looked at different ingredients, browsed books, checked out the latest in denim and camouflage fashions, and in these moments, I felt a bit connected to the world outside of the Southwest. These were moments of escape from my childhood troubles, the bullying, the racism, growing up in a home with domestic abuse, and the otherness of being a third culture kid in America. These nibbles, a treasure, and a glimpse into a world grander than I could imagine. One of our bulk-shopping staples was a football-sized plastic container of Ragu brand red sauce and massive dried spaghetti packs. I still remember the illustration of the little man on a yellow gondola with a jaunty hat perched atop his head. Spaghetti, Ragu, and sometimes meatballs (frozen) was always such a treat. As I grew older, my mom and I would go to our local butcher, Coronado Prime Meats, and talk to the butcher about how to best prepare the various cuts we would buy. We would play around with making meatballs based on what I saw on PBS cooking shows, and word of mouth methods shared by members of the Korean-American community, conversations with family friends, and of course, our butchers. At the time, I thought in binary terms—that everything outside my Korean-American home was either Mexican or American. Somehow, a lot of folks in El Paso had opinions on meatballs. Perhaps that's why pasta, red sauce/gravy, and meatballs have always felt like a very distinctly Americana dish to me. Maybe because this dish, while Italian in influence, is so embedded in American culture that I felt its impact in the Southwest desert. When researching spaghetti and meatballs' origins, I learned the dish is one of those beautiful immigrant inventions from Italians who had settled in New York City. Because they had more access to meat than they did in Italy, the meatball evolved into something with fewer bread crumbs and more meat served with pasta rather than separately. Here are some fascinating pieces on the topic: Is Spaghetti and Meatballs Italian?, Not Your Grandmother's Meatball, and Who Invented Spaghetti and Meatballs? . While we had a few Italian-American spots in El Paso, my family didn't know about them or frequent them. We at our special occasion Italian meals at the Olive Garden, and I still fuck with the Tour of Italy, the salads, and all you can eat breadsticks; food snobs be damned. During college, my friends and I would have Sunday suppers at Baris in Waco, Texas, where I first experienced a family run Italian-American spot. There was something distinctly homemade about the sauces compared to the Olive Garden. My perception of Italian cuisine expanded—in Waco of all places. Then, at twenty-one, I moved to New York City. On 86th and York before the Q line expanded into Manhattan, my first apartment was a 15-minute walk from the subway. Our building had a red door, and I lived with a good friend from college, Lauren, and two other disrespectful and entitled Texans who were a hot mess. Our neighborhood Italian-American restaurant was Arturo's, a super old school no-fuss red-sauce joint. I loved going to Arturo's. It was so New York; you could feel that this place was an old establishment that served unpretentious delicious Italian-American fare. I rarely needed to make meatballs and red sauce in NYC, but it was always a special occasion food and a weekend project to look forward to when I did. I would go to Paisano's or Fleisher's butchers to get some high-quality beef, pick up some crusty bread, and cook listening to WNYC. I'd make the meatballs, sear them up, and finish them in a simple red sauce. Then, friends would come over to tuck into the pasta.
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