The Brave Little Meatball

A "Bedtime Story for Big Kids," on cancer survival.

THE BRAVE LITTLE MEATBALL

A bedtime story for big kids…

Emboldened by the pathologist who determined a life-threatening melanoma was a usually harmless Spitz nevus, spurred on by the physician who repeatedly excised it and tossed it into the trash, motivated by the courageousness of my baby sister (whom my father nicknamed “Meatball”), awakened by the brilliance of the medical community that eventually cured her.

Let us begin…

I see everything, so I have many stories. This story is about a meatball… a brave, little meatball. For the beginning of this story, let’s call me Timothy. And let’s picture me as a round, kitchen clock, placed high on the wall of a large, immaculate kitchen. I am circled in shiny chrome, white faced, with bold black numbers, black hands, and a red, ticking second hand.

I watch from my perch as Chef Medico pulls a white paper package from a brown paper sack. He un-wraps it to expose choice beef, then drops the purplish meat into a big stainless mixing bowl. The guests are arriving. It is time to create his famous meatballs.

Since I see everything, I know his secret, fresh ground meat and day-old Rosemary Focaccia. The chef, stationed at the kitchen-island adjacent to the warming oven, crumbles the bread, adds spices without measuring, and squeezes the ingredients together with his bare hands. Every few seconds he pinches a piece of the raw meat and tastes it. When he throws a quick kiss to the air with his thick fingers, I know he is ready to mold.

Chef Medico forms meatball after perfect meatball. He has a knack for keeping them uniform in size. He knows he will mold exactly sixteen. I see him stiffen as he scoops the mixture to roll his last one. “I naw believe-uh!” the chef cries. He has miscalculated. It will be too small. “Naw problem-uh,” he then mutters. There will be only seven for dinner, including Mrs. Mackey’s toddling grandson. And Miss Joy, she is a vegetarian. "Idiotico!"but that will help. An idea lights in the chef’s head: I will-uh make-uh one-uh for-uh duh bambino! He knows all will be impressed. And that is how this meatball’s life began.

And that is why she was born so round and firm and cherry. Everything a meatball could and should be, except large. I will call this meatball Jane, although most meatballs don’t have names.

    Jane, like most meatballs, believes she knows her destiny. She believes, after being scooped and rolled and patted, she will be placed on a shiny, silver sheet pan like her siblings and be put into the oven to bake. She knows, within seconds of the timer buzzing, Chef Medico will slide the tray from the rack, smugly sniff in their delightful meatball smell, and arrange the batch of them atop a platter of 100% Durham semolina. He will blanket them in steaming, red tomato sauce. Jane can already smell the perfume of onions and garlic and oregano and the hint of rosemary that will tickle every nose in this great house. Yes, she knows the chef will swing them through the double doors from the kitchen and into the dining room displaying them as his masterpiece in the center of the long mahogany table. She pictures the humans with lit-up eyes and lip-licking tongues digging in. “Ooohh…” they’ll exhale in unison. She feels herself sprinkled with fresh-grated Parmesan, gently tined, and separated into mouth-watering, bite-sized pieces, and then finally, finally… chewed and melted into a warm and moist and grateful mouth. I see the little meatball smile. But…

As Chef Medico starts to slide the sheet pan onto the oven rack, he bobbles (as one might after two and a half glasses of Chianti) and bumps the edge. Jane, positioned so “wisely” in the center, catapults off the end. SPLAT! She lands on a black kitchen tile. If fate had placed her on a checker of white, the chef may have noticed, but alas, he slides in the sheet, pushes in the rack, and closes the oven door. Walking away to set the timer, he nearly steps on her.

Even so, Jane trusts the chef will see her when he heads back toward the butcher block to slice vegetables. She’s wrong. Now donning his white, double-breasted “Egyptian” cotton jacket, his floppy chef’s hat placed atop his balding head, the toe of one of Chef Medico’s black leather shoes pops her and sends her flying like a well-kicked soccer ball. Jane hits the baseboard under the kitchen-island cabinets and drops back to the floor. This time she lands on a white tile.

This IS fortunate, I hear Jane think to herself only slightly discouraged. I’ll stand out! I am smaller than the others, she goes on… there will be time for me to make it into the oven. The chef takes pride in his craft, Jane is convinced he won’t let her spoil. And since she has noted he is a little tipsy, she figures a few vegetables will fall to the floor as he prepares the salad. He’ll see her when he bends down to pick them up. Yes, he’ll see me then! thinks Jane.

1No luck. Every leaf of spinach, every tear of red lettuce, every sweet, yellow pepper strip, thinly sliced radish, and sliced purple onion ring drops straight from the walnut chopping block into the lead crystal salad bowl. “Mother Fulkerson!” Jane says aloud, continuing to show her spunk. Then, Jane and I are both drawn by the insistent mew streaming through the side kitchen door, “Meoww, meeowww, MEOW!” The chef finally notices.

Perfect timing! celebrates Jane, Keemo will be my savior. When the chef pours him a saucer of cream, he’ll set it on the floor and find me then.

But when the door is cracked open, a drab gray streak dashes past the chef, then Jane, the cat (who is also balding) on a mission of his own.

Well, thinks Jane, trying to reassure herself, it’s probably a good thing. Keemo might have taken a chomp out of me. (I watch as Chef Medico hurries past her to deliver his salad.) I am feeling a bit sticky though; time is ticking. Maybe when the chef returns, I can muster a few rolls, he’ll catch sight of me out of the corner of an eye. He’ll think I’m a mouse, and take a closer look.

Soon Chef Medico rushes back by, heading toward the sink to pour himself another half-glass of wine. Jane gathers momentum and pushes forward. She goes end over end, then sticks with a quiet blop. Puzzled for a second, Jane remembers that she’s lost her plump, round shape, starting with the landing from the sheet pan, continuing with the unintentional kick from the chef, then made worse by waiting in the toasty kitchen air. This is even tougher than I anticipated acknowledges the lopsided little meatball. But again, she gathers momentum and pushes forward. One more rotation, and blump. No hint of awareness from the chef. She musters another roll, then another. “Urgh!” she grunts out loud, now getting mad. “This is taking too long!” But our little meatball, Jane, refuses to give up.

Jane doesn’t know it, but her sisters are watching through the glass window in the oven door, they saw her hit the floor. And like me, they saw her almost get stepped on. They saw her get popped and sent flying; and they saw her turn from purplish to reddish, but still have faith. They too saw her blush deepen with Keemo at the door, and witnessed the flash of brownish-gray cat. They saw her decide to take her fate into her own hands; then saw her pushing, and puzzling, and pushing and pushing, and ultimately getting mad. We all saw her anger make her redder yet, and knew that redness held her life. But now she is getting tired, and together, we watch her color fade and shift toward a dull mottled brown.

    “Don’t give up! DON’T GIVE UP!” her siblings cheer as they bake. “There is always enough time,” I whisper from above. And in Jane, a light pink color begins to return. “I will get his attention,” she says. “I will.”

Jane, working so hard, doesn’t notice the shift in Chef Medico’s posture. He has spun around on one foot and leans back against the counter pushing the ruby end of a cork into the three-quarters-gone bottle of wine. I see him gaze down at his toes and halt when he spies the little meatball on the floor. “My-uh leetle meat-uh-ball-uh! Duh nice-uh leetle meat-uh-ball-uh!”

    The chef shoves the bottle aside and kneels to cradle Jane in his stout hands. He stands to rinse her under cold running water; then rolls her in slow, gentle circles between his cool palms. I witness Jane, again, plumping, firming, then rippling pink with the promise of joining her sisters in the oven.

The chef, who had just been reflecting on how wine blurs his talents, sobered a tad at the thought of the small misshapen meatball on the floor. Another idea lights in his head. He will sauté her in a pan, for just a few minutes. That will bring her close to the baking point of the meatballs on the sheet pans. Then he will place her in the oven where she properly belongs. She is small, there may be time. Chef Medico pulls down the oven door. Ready to slide out the hot rack, he sees he is too late. “Aww… I sawr-ry leetle meat-uh-ball-uh.” The kitchen timer beeps.

    Beads of clear moisture glisten on the round brown surfaces of the finished meatballs. The chef becomes excited “Dees will-uh bee-uh duh JOOO-see-UST meat-uh-ball-uhs!” What he doesn’t know, is that they will. Due to meatball tears.

Now Jane watches her sisters. The chef arranges them one by one atop the pasta al dente. Jane shivers with desire as they are cloaked in steaming red. We all see the chef stand taller as he takes a deep whiff of the wafting cloud above them. He steadies the platter on one brawny arm, just as Jane has envisioned, and parades through the doors to the dining room. They swing in and out behind him several times. Jane hears those Ooohhs and Mmms and many delighted giggles.

    Though feeling alone, again, she is thankful to be up off the floor, on the counter top. And it looks different from here now. She notices things she hasn’t before: Shining glass canisters, tall to squat, filled with sparkling sugar, snow-white flour, sticks of colored noodles, mounds of black, red and green herbs for tea. Appliances hum and whoosh, and a mirror like faucet reflects her brownish-greyness, now swirled with cherry red. The sweet fragrance of Daphne sprigs mixes with the fading smell of meatballs, tomato sauce and fresh baked Italian bread. She wishes she had paid more attention to what life looked like from her spot on the floor.

    Suddenly, her meatball mind wandering through the circumstances that have led her to this moment is jolted by Keemo bounding back into the kitchen. Jane sees his stocky, threatening figure take a giant leap up on to the counter where she is resting. Jane stays very still, but the cat spies her and pads deliberately toward her. He swipes Jane with a strong paw. Through the air Jane sails, heading straight for the oven. She closes her eyes even though she tries not to. What a surprise when she lands on the hot, top oven rack. Distracted by his little meatball’s dilemma, the chef left the door open. The dial is still set at 375 degrees. Keemo pounces after Jane, and slides across the slippery kitchen tiles, sprawling beneath the oven door, “Rrrrarrr!” Keemo shrieks, then springs to his feet hitting the door, knocking it shut. Stunned, but feeling strangely proud, the cat saunters back out the way he came.

    Jane, now nestled on the hot rack, is also feeling pleased. It seems she is finally fulfilling her destiny, though she knows she might burn beyond recognition. Fear comes, fear goes. She can do nothing but wait, so she takes it all in. She smiles at the glass bulb glowing in the corner. She contemplates the shiny black and white speckled oven walls. She awes at the flames licking and hissing above her, bright yellow and electric blue. She enjoys the clicking, the clacking and the smell of her cooking. And the heat, the glorious heat.

    Chef Medico, flushed from hurrying about and fielding compliments on his cooking, returns to the kitchen. It is time to finish preparing dessert. Chocolate-dipped Almond Biscotti. “Basta!” he yells when he sees the oven is still on. He lowers the temperature. While arranging the cookies on a baking sheet, “Meat-uh-ball-uhs?” the chef says to himself, sniffing the air. Grazie, naw mor-uh vino! he thinks. He continues to line the biscotti cut side down, then whirls the cookie sheet to the oven with one hand, pulling open the door with the mitted other. Sliding out the middle rack, his eyes set upon the little ball sizzling above it. He drops the sheet, "CLACK!" Pan hitting rack echoing through the swinging doors. The youngest of the guests, that tow-headed little two-year-old, begins to wail. The chef plucks out the meatball and sets it onto the small blue plate he’d earlier left beside the sink. He slides in the biscotti, only slightly jumbled, shuts the oven, then charges through the doors into the dining room apologizing.

    “Oh, he’s not crying because of the noise,” explains Mrs. Mackey, “He’s upset because he didn’t get a whole meatball… and these are just too big.”

    “Scusi!” the chef squeals to the confusion of all at the table, and he charges back into the kitchen. “Oh, my-uh leetle meat-uh-ball-uh! You are-uh perfetto.” He grabs the blue plate; hand painted with pink hearts (and gray kitties) and hurries back into the dining room. “Eez-uh all right-uh,” he whispers to the little boy, “She’s for-uh you.” And the chef places the little meatball in front of the now grinning toddler. Because I, Timothy, see everything, I now watch through the eyes of the divine grandfather clock, boundless against the wall of the great hall. I witness that brave little meatball being tickled and tined and melted into glory. Kismet. Chef Medico stands, conscious, slides off his hat, bows his head, thanks the family and their guests for their patience, and returns to the kitchen to finish preparing dessert. Keemo, naps, on his back, purring in the far corner.

Author's Note

Please no comments on this being too long for a children's story. It is not meant to be one. Thanks. :)

Reviews

[barleygirl]

Everything about your writing, in a mechanical sense, is perfection. You rarely see storywriting at the cafe which has such an array of construction perfection. Also, your imagination is off-the-charts for weaving such an intricate tale about a meatball, especially enjoyable were your descriptions of food & cooking, all expressed with an original sense of stylized storytelling, nicely effective. This story was a little long, not from the viewpoint of being a children's story or whatever it may be, but just becuz a meatball adventure really didn't compel me thru the entire romp. Your writing is compelling, but this storyline was not so compelling to me, to be dragged thru all this. The parts I felt were a little overdone were the few times when you would summarize a sequence of events that had just occurred as if the reader couldn't remember what's happened in a story that's relatively short, as stories go. I feel perhaps the writer was more enthralled with what had happened & so could not resist re-stating the story a few different times, wanting to "up the game" as far as being fastidiously articulate with an entertaining flourish. I think you could streamline this story a little bit, cutting down on the repetitive nature of restating these sequences, not needed for clarity. But as a story, it's "all that" -- far beyond most of the stories I read at the cafe (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[PamiAnde]

Wow, that was a really helpful review Margie. You are incredibly generous with your time and expertise. I am hoping to learn from your skills. I'm not sure if you caught it, but this is a chronological tale of my of my youngest sister's fight through melanoma. Undoubtedly why the adventure kept me going. I am excited to go back, figure out what I can cut, and slash it! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

P.S. My husband and I are in the process of completing a move into an apartment after being on the road for the past two and a half years. Living in a tent, a van, hotels, a resort, wintering in Costa Rica. Point being, I'm nearly ready to spend more time writing, revising, and reviewing. You inspire me. OOO, Ande

[barleygirl]

Good luck with the next phase of your journey! I'm wondering if you've done any true-story adventures from your wanderings, becuz that would be very interesting to me. I did catch your intro comment about your sister's cancer, but the story itself did not bring that situation to mind very much for me.