I don't know if it's been the nausea, or the rollercoaster of events (and subsequent need for comfort food), but this is all that's sounding good to me this week:
That's right, folks: good ol' spaghetti and meatballs. I've had it for dinner three times this week. Not ziti, not penne, not meat SAUCE, but spaghetti and meatballs. From three different restaurants. There's just something so soothing about the combination. I've always loved pasta, so it's not surprising that in a time of physical and emotional distress that I've been coming back to it again and again, but it's still kind of cracking me up. I mean, I went to a STEAK restaurant on Mother's Day, and ordered SPAGHETTI & MEATBALLS. What am I, twelve?
I also ordered a Shirley Temple, but that's beside the point.
I actually make pretty killer meatballs. It's been sort of a mission to perfect my technique so that they come out just the way I like them -- big, soft, moist (I really hate that word, but I can't think of another apt descriptor) and resplendent with bread crumbs and parmesan. I'll post my recipe in the comments, and perhaps will gather up the energy to make up a batch this weekend.
Oh, who am I kidding? As much as I love the meatballs, I think at this point a nap still wins.