One of the first meals Andy ever made me was his pasta and meatballs. It was in the summer when we first met, and he had invited me and Suzie over for dinner. So frazzled were my nerves and so high was my anxiety that I made Suzie stop at the TGIFriday’s at Stuyvesant Plaza for a cocktail beforehand. There was no need for such worry – once we were seated in Andy’s Guilderland house, it felt comfortable and safe, and as we ate his pasta and meatballs, it felt like it could be home.
Throughout the years that followed, this meal would become a reliable dinner of comfort food, and word of its goodness traveled among our friends. Suzie’s daughter Oona would come along, and she loved the meatballs as much as any found in a restaurant. My parents would join in the adoration for the classic dish, and our other friends would enjoy it whenever we were at a loss as to what to serve.
Andy revised and refined his recipe, following hints from Rosanna at his favorite restaurant (hint: no garlic, only onions) and no matter what insanity was going on in the world and in our lives, this meal would ground and stabilize us – made with care, consideration and love – and enjoyed in the same manner. Andy finds comfort in making a big pot of sauce then crafting a baking sheet crowded with meatballs, and I find comfort in eating it all when it’s ready. It’s a system that works.
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