If you've ever read Proust's "Remembrance of Things Past" you will understand where I'm going with this. Proust's narrator takes a bite of a madeleine and is instantly transported to another time and place in which he reunites with all the characters and places and events of his far-away past.
I had not eaten tomato soup in about 30 years. I could not find my mother's tomato soup. Each winter, when I went to Florida, friends and relatives would assure me that they had found THE restaurant that served Momma's tomato soup. I tried each and every one of them and always came away disappointed.
It all started when I was about 4 years-old. I was in Spain with my father, mother and older brother. I was in the kitchen, ready for my food to come. My great-aunt, my father’s aunt, was cooking the food. I saw her teaching my mom how to make a delicious dish called ‘’pollo con salsa de ajo,’’ also known as ‘’Chicken with Garlic Sauce.’’
My dad was a butcher, so we were often treated to some form of meat at meals, but Sunday was the day when it got the regal roll-out: heaping, steaming plates of gravy-dripping pork, lamb and sausage. But the much awaited star of the show was the humble meatball: fat, round, gravied or just plain fried.