Rainy with a Certainty of Meatballs

For a while now, I've been meaning to attempt albóndigas, based on a hazy memory of a lone delicious encounter with same at a tapas restaurant. But something or another has always intervened, and the high-quality ground beef I keep purchasing with the intent of making meatballs has been put to any purpose but. With a cold Friday drizzle seeping into my head, ushering in what would be a sopping wet and intermittently raw weekend, my thoughts turned first to soup, then back to those unrealized albóndigas. This time nothing would keep me from my mission.

Memory can be such a funny thing. I distinctly recall rice and cumin in the albóndigas I'd sampled, but not much identifiable beyond that. I couldn't even have told you what meat had been used. So I did some research, comparing different recipes, and came to the conclusion that no one agrees on what constitutes a Spanish meatball, or even on what should go into the traditional soup. I took this as a license to improvise. Beef alone didn't seem quite right. Chorizo would have been my first choice, but Master's aversion to anything spicy preempted it as an option. A length of locally made Italian pork sausage, flecked with red pepper flakes but not overwhelmingly assertive, felt like the right addition to the meatball mixture.

As a small quantity of white rice steamed and cumin seeds toasted, I surveyed the pantry. Garlic, of course; maybe three small cloves, grated raw. Mexican oregano. Breadcrumbs? Flour? No... coarse cornmeal. I raided the refrigerator for an egg and cilantro, eyes darting from shelf to shelf as the minimalist and maximalist in me waged war. We would compromise, keeping the albóndigas very basic (and hopefully "traditional") while being more ecumenical, if warranted, with regards to the soup. It's always nice when you can get yourself to agree on something.

E. coli scares and frequent recalls made me wary about undercooking red meat, and I can't say I trusted the heat of the soup to cook my meatballs through. I reasoned that they should be prepared separately. At the risk of smoking us out into the rainy night - Master's smoke detector is as sensitive as his stomach, and it's wired directly to the fire station - I chose to brown, then braise, the albóndigas in an open, unoiled skillet. Master reacted as expected, leaping momentarily from his ABC Nightly News-hour repose to strike up the air purifier. Oh, come now. It wasn't that smoky. But I held my tongue and, once the albóndigas had taken on color on several sides (insofar as round things have sides), added a little stock and covered the pan. I tried a tiny one, after it had cooled, and the recognition came immediately, in a rush of memories of not only the albóndigas, but of all the other tapas tasted during that meal. Success!

That left the soup. I realized my carrots, celery and onions weren't cooking because I'd turned on the wrong burner. D'oh! They caught up quickly, with the addition of stock, water, a can of crushed tomatoes, half a jar of (very) mild salsa, a touch of smoked paprika and the scrumptious drippings from the skillet - I knew there was a good reason for finishing those meatballs first - deglazed with oloroso sherry. In went the albóndigas, for one last unifying simmer while the table was being set, a few fistfuls of fresh cilantro, a bit of basil. And it was time to ring the dinner bell. Always more welcome than the fire alarm.