Christmas Meatballs

In my family of origin, food is our love language. We may not speak of the strong affection we feel for each other, but we eat. Ruby’s pickled beets, Inga’s brownies, Auntie Nora’s buns, and Grandma’s raunchy baked beans. It’s what we do. We do it well.

Annie took this feeding frenzy to new heights ten years ago when she hosted a Christmas Tea. Using only her prettiest china, she served elegant desserts, finger length sandwiches, truffles in crystal punch bowls, and Sally’s crab salad. Only the women of the family were invited. Everything formal and lovely while harp music played in the background. Her Martha-Stewart-like Christmas tree lit up the living room like a glowing Christmas star.

The men ogled the bulging table with disbelief before they shuffled downstairs to the den. Why weren’t they invited? When the women finished their extravaganza, the men and boys swooped in like hungry sea gulls, pecking away at the leftovers, squawking about the tiny portions.

The next year we sisters each contributed something to ease Annie’s workload for the tea… and invited the men folk. It was such a success that the following year we begged for another increase in the guest list. What about our second cousin from White Bear Lake? What about the Omaha in-laws? How about my best friend? With each additional guest, came more food.

Last year, we almost ruined it by bringing enough Swedish meatballs to feed the State of Minnesota. "That’s it!" Annie’s eyes blazed as she shoved yet another ice cream bucket of meatballs into her refrigerator. "You can’t bring this much food!" We stared at her in horror as tears dripped down her face and splashed on her gravy-spattered arms. "Unless you promise to bring less food next year, the tea is cancelled!"

Solemnly we agreed to bring only what assigned. Nothing more. Not even if we find it on sale.

"And no meatballs!" Annie insisted. "Never another meatball at the Christmas Tea or I’ll lock the doors."

This year I brought only one giant salad and limited myself to a single bottle of gourmet dressing. The leafy greens looked great in my crystal bowl.

"I hope you didn’t bring too much," Annie said as she met me at the door. "This year will be different."

And so it seemed. One salad. Not too many buns. Enough pickled beets to send home with the second cousin from White Bear Lake. Just enough. We did it.

But as I washed my hands to help fix the sandwiches, Annie became very quiet. After a moment of hedging, she went to the fridge and pulled out a giant mixing bowl filled with ham salad. Much more ham salad per capita than the meatballs of the year before. Enough to feed the entire State of Minnesota.

"What were you thinking?" I stared in disbelief. "We can’t possibly eat this much."

"Without meatballs," she said in a quiet voice, "I was afraid we’d run out of food." She bit her lip and looked away. "Only 12 pounds…and Jordan had fun turning the grinder."

This family needed help. I wondered aloud if there were a support group for perpetual food pushers of Nordic descent. If not, we should start one…the sooner the better.

The next day I phoned to thank Annie for the party. "I got rid of all the ham salad," she said. "Every bit. Sent some with Claudia. Made Tommy take a bowl. Sent a zip lock back to Omaha. Made sandwiches for Nathan’s lunch."

"Nathan’s a vegetarian," I said. "He just took them to be nice."

"At least it’s gone," she sighed. "Another great party."

And that’s the other thing about my family of origin. We like to make other people eat as we do. It’s how we show our affection. It’s how we expect them to show it back.