Meatballs

Fiction about food and dating

There were four meatballs floating in sauce. They were like asteroids of flesh. Bumpy and imperfectly round.

Michelle helped herself to one. She took a hearty bite. (She ordered spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. “I know it’s like a kiddie meal, but it’s calling out to me.” “You know, it’s a staple for a reason,” Jake said, with forced joie de vivre.)

But its flavor surprised her. Whatever it was, she couldn’t name. “Can you try one of these and tell me if it tastes weird to you?” “Weird how?” “I’m not sure. I don’t have a good vocabulary for food; I can’t describe taste beyond sweet and sour.”

Michelle paused, then added, “It’s just kind of funky.”

So Jake bisected a meatball. He took one half and ate it. “It’s the raisins,” he said quickly, almost brusquely, like a busy doctor. “In meatballs?” Michelle asked. Her face puckered in confusion and mild disgust. “To make them sweet,” Jake said. “It’s a Sicilian thing.” “I did not know this.” “Yeah. It’s good.” “Where’d you learn that?” “My college girlfriend was Sicilian.” “I see.”

Michelle poked at her meatball with a fork. She tried to take out a raisin discreetly. “I don’t actually know the difference between Sicily and Italy. Though I probably shouldn’t say that too loudly!”

And they continued to eat, commenting on the food periodically. They decided not to get dessert, though they looked at the menu to be polite. (“I do like tiramisu,” Michelle muttered.)

And they each paid for their own meal.