Years ago, there seemed to be a lot more restrictions on

“what goes with what”.

Everyone had a choice of only several design styles.

In the 50’s there was ” Modern”,

now referred to as Mid- Century Modern.

We all know what that looks like.

Another style was “Colonial” or “Early American”

bringing memories of  oval braided rugs,, high backed sofas

and unattractive maple dining sets.

 Dark colors, plaids, Herculon fabrics and old floral patterns

paired with  the requisite standing ash tray.

There wasn’t much to choose from with regard to accessories.

I remember the whole “Colonial thing” being dark and depressing.

There was also a  “Traditional” style of design

  consisting of Chippendale, Queen Anne or Georgian pieces

for those with some money but not much imagination.

This style was always accessorized with lenox china and silver pieces.

Predictability- 100%!

In the late 60’s- “Spanish” became the “rage”-

large, unsightly carved furniture-

paintings of matadors and bulls and

garish gold or red velvet chairs and sofas with fringe.

It was the design equivalent of a bordello.

Fortunately, it didn’t last long.

( unlike the bordello)

I didn’t like any of these styles-

they were either boring or horrifying .

I like a Chinese take- out menu when it comes to design-

I’ll take a couple things from Column A, a couple from Column B

and add some of my own pieces to it to make what I want.

Those “popular styles”were too boring, limiting and not personal

Everyone has to start somewhere to develop their own personal style.

I started by knowing what I didn’t like and went from there.

I shouldn’t cast stones because in 1970-

my first apartment featured a black/white check sofa,

a wicker peacock chair, a glass and steel coffee table,

a black leather swivel chair, a nylon filament hanging light,

bookcases painted white and shelves featuring black and white contact paper!

Yes, contact paper.

I am still ashamed!

My living room was Black, White and had Yellow accents!

I don’t even like Black, White or Yellow!

There was also a little den filled with large faux animal skin pillows thrown on a wall to wall shag rug.

Hanging beads filled the little doorway to the den.

I then purchased an outdoor wrought iron dining set for my dining room.

So, that’s how I started.

I thought it was divine!

It didn’t work- it was a hot mess.

But then again- what did I know then?

Now, almost 50 years later, I look back at that apartment in horror.

But I can see the beginning of my love for re-purposing items and putting unexpected pieces together..

In the early 70’s in my first home, which was a little more grown-up,I took an old oak pedestal table,

with carved lions’ head and feathers and paired it with Antique Queen Anne dining chairs,

I had stripped and painted .

I went to the Junk Store ( an early relative of the antique store),

found an old iron bed and a cupboard.

 I wallpapered the dining room with an old Schumacher design called Firebird Tree-

a really large, dramatic pattern which I also used in fabric on the living room chairs.

The dining room had very casual furniture, but a lovely, more formal wallpaper.

.My guest room was painted lime green, with white trim, a big old white iron bed and a blue and white patchwork quilt.

People who walked in the guest room were either completely horrified or entranced by it.

I believe a house speaks to you about what it wants and how it should look.

But after a while, I stopped listening to that voice and began to decorate for me- not the house.

I’ve been through A Romantic period, A Global period, A  Minimalist Primitive Antique and Linen Sofa period-  I’ve been through my French/European phase, my Mountain Cabin phase-

but ultimately you have to call my style:

Totally Me

It’s a melange of styles (as I am a melange of personalities!)

There are  some French antique tables, mixed with African Sculpture, stone walls, Buddhas, Asian touches,traditional Ralph Lauren pieces, lots of books, accessories from every where

Balinese masks

a collection of antique and homemade walking sticks

Pottery Barn- style sofas in brown and cream herringbone,

bottle green antique velvet chairs,

a large map of Paris, Old Parisian Engravings,  A large painting of The Buddha,

rugs hanging as wall art, lots of paisley,

great pillows, patterned throws, plants,

an antique cupboard from a Philadelphia Farm and

an old nail board table from the Ile de France.

It’s all about Comfort, Texture and Color.

It’s me, it’s what I love and and it’s my sanctuary.

It’s visual testimony to the veracity of the quote:

If You Love It- It Works!

Only buy what you LOVE.

Don’t “settle” for some piece just to fill a space.

Buy things that make you happy just looking at them.

Don’t worry about anything but making your home

a place of retreat,

reflective of your interests, your preferences, your loves, your hobbies.

Make it comfortable, welcoming and surround yourself

with colors and objects that make you happy.

It’s your Cocoon.

And if you only choose things you love,

IT WILL WORK!

As a designer, the book “House as a Mirror of Self” has  always been a favorite.

I’ve read and referred to it many times and thought it might be interesting for you to put it to the test in your own life.

The book is not really about design. It’s about psychology and it’s effect on design. It’s about how and why we make choices on where to live, what house to buy and what we put in our homes.

There are many underlying reasons why we are attracted to particular homes or styles. Much of it has to do with our childhood memories and our longing to re-create those safe, happy places.

When we are able to create surroundings reminiscent of those childhood memories they become reflections of our deepest longings . In doing so, we are able to re-connect with our happiest times.

As adults, we fill our interior spaces with objects that reflect our sense of “self” . In the process, as we look back, we can see how and why we developed a particular style .

I began thinking about this concept and realized that I have done this myself, many times over the years- unaware of why I was doing it and oblivious to the fact that I was “doing” anything except buying things I liked. I never stopped to consider “why” I was drawn to specific pieces.

In my grandmother’s house- she had an attic,  which was bright, sunny, clean and wallpapered in a delicate floral pattern . It had lots of  little spaces filled with all sorts of treasures, neatly tucked under the eaves. There was a bed up there, and occasionally, I got to to sleep in that comforting little nook, surrounded by her old clothes, hat boxes and my Dad’s high chair from 1923.. I felt safe in the midst of all that family clutter, knowing  these things belonged to people I loved long before I was even on the planet. Old things that had a history always made me feel hopeful that somehow, because these items came from the past, there would also be a future.

I wish I were a minimalist but I am not. And no matter how much I try to clear my space of “things”, I can’t for any extended period of time. I am not a hoarder, by any means; but I find the presence of things I love to be essential to maintaining calm and peace inside. My home is my sanctuary, as it should be for everyone. So, it’s natural that we would create a visually pleasing and comforting space to help us survive the craziness of the world.

I think, in part, it’s because those days- long ago in my Nana’s attic shaped my perception of what a safe space looked and felt like. In that safe space I was surrounded by things that were cherished by her. It was a connection to her, to her past, to her life, to my family. Safety and happiness looked a bit like the clutter in her attic.

So, for almost all of my adult life, I have loved antiques, fabrics, trinkets gathered from around the world; pieces that bring me joy when I look at them; things of beauty, books, books and more books.  My grandfather had a library in his home and I remember sitting in that special quiet room with him, talking, reading and listening to the radio. That is one of my most cherished memories of time spent with him. So naturally, I am and always have been, drawn to  reading and books. Whenever I read, there is a fleeting glimpse of the comfy library and time spent with him.

I have no particular design style. I guess you could call it “Multiple Personality Design Disorder”.  It’s changed throughout my life, based on what type of house I’ve lived in and where I was in my journey.My problem is that I love beauty and it comes in so many forms.

I have a great love for wind chimes; always have. For many years, I never bothered to analyze it.  I have 13 of them hanging under my pergola on the patio. Where does this passion for wind chimes come from? After reading the book and putting it’s theories to the test, I trace it back to my mother’s parents’ house. My Nana had one wind chime on her front porch, which I never really noticed during the day. But, at night when I went to sleep in my mother’s old bedroom, my Nana would open the window and I would hear those chimes tinkling below me. It wasn’t just any old wind chime. It was from Japan and it was made of  long, thin, flat pieces of glass, so the tones were very high and delicate.

To this day, that is my favorite sound.( I even have wind chimes as the ring tone on my phone!) I only have one chime that sounds like the one my Nana had and every time I hear it- I am back in that little bedroom; with it’s crooked, old board floors. I  am seven, once again, there in that safe and special place where at night, I looked out  the window at the big, old buttery moon, heard leaves rustling in the trees and delighted in the tinkling of that one Japanese Glass wind chime.

Try going back in your memory, thinking about places that made you feel happy and safe, as a child .See if any of those things can be connected to your present day surroundings or your preference for certain things. It’s an interesting exercise and I promise, it will only bring you joy…and perhaps a new understanding of how and why your House is a Mirror of your self.

Picture Don Draper’s New York.

That’s  how it was the first time I went in 1955.

Awe-inspiring. That’s the term I would use.

For a little 6 year old girl, living in Pennsylvania, it was magic!

Having breakfast on the train ,

watching the skyline appear as we approached the city.

There was so much awe and excitement about making those special trips.

My grandfather was my tour guide.

He owned a Textile Mill in Pennsylvania ,but did a lot of business in the city.

He had an office in the Empire State Building on the 80th or 88th floor.

I can’t remember anymore.

 He liked showing me his New York,

which also became my New York.

He was a self -made man, a self- educated man and

an entrepreneur.

 Experiences  were valued, above all else.

He lived in an unassuming home in a very modest neighborhood,

but had a room devoted just to his books that would have rivaled the local library-

Edmund Burke, Samuel Johnson, Socrates,

all the great philosophers & classic writers.

He didn’t want to just buy me things.

He wanted me to see things and learn .

We had an inexplicable bond.

 He loved spending time with me as I did with him.

 These were our special trips- every month- just the two of us.

I remember going to a movie called ” Windjammer”, around 42nd St in some big theater.

There was new technology called “cinemiracle”- which simulated a large Windjammer  cutting through the rough sea..

It was so realistic- I actually got sea sick. He felt really badly about that!

I was fascinated by the silliest things.

One of my favorite places was a Horn & Hardart Cafeteria.

Where else could you put coins in a slot and have a piece of pie magically appear.

It was thrilling.

Of course, I was only 8!

There were trips to The Rodeo and the Circus,   Central Park, exploring the museums, skating at Rockefeller Center,

The New York Public Library

Window shopping on Fifth Avenue at Christmas.

Poppop was a die- hard Phillies fan- but I was absolutely devoted to Mickey Mantle and the Yankees, so

every season, we would go to a Yankees game, if I agreed to go to a Phillies game too.

He taught me so much, and showed me such wonderful things.

On the train ride home he would ask me questions

and we would talk about all we had seen during the day and what I had learned

And then he always asked me the same question….

“What is the most important lesson of all, Janice?”

“That life is a great adventure, Poppop.”

That’s right.

He died very suddenly at 65 years old.

 I was 10 and it shattered me in ways no one ever understood.

To this day- he is the person I miss the most .

That wonderful, exciting part of my life with him was over.

But, time passed and I grew and

I went on to create my own relationship with New York in my teens.

This New York included my parents and it was fun.

I started going to Broadway Plays:

( my first one was Camelot with Richard Burton and Julie Andrews)

Everything seemed possible in New York in the 50’s and 60’s.

It was so glamorous!

I felt different just being in the city.

When I was  about 12 years old-

I remember eating at Danny’s Hideaway with my Mom & Dad.

Danny Stradella, the owner,was my Dad’s friend.

Apparently, it was a very “hot spot” for Celebrities- which I knew nothing about.

One night,  Danny brought a gentlemen over to our table and introduced him to my Dad and Mom.

It was Frank Sinatra..

There was a short conversation: polite chit- chat.

Frank’s parting words to my father were were :

” Love the wife”

My Dad responded : ” Me too”.

That was it.

I didn’t even really know who he was and didn’t care much.

But my mother was all atwitter.

Frank Sinatra thought she was a “babe”!

She was….

I’ve had a long and very satisfying love affair with New York.

From going there so many years, I know the city like the back of my hand.

Except for Soho. I always get confused in Soho!

Of course, when I was growing up,

  Greenwich Village was where civilization ended!

It’s changed so much.

I was there this past weekend and it’s clear to me

the New York of my childhood is long gone.

The only thing that remains

is the magic I feel every time I’m there.

That will never leave me

Now, I seem to wander down memory lane quite a bit.

 I like it there.

It’s comforting, quiet and golden- hued.

All those events and experiences are etched into my memory

and I can travel there any time I want.

 Frequently, I do.

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Paris is where I really want to live.

The City of Lights fascinates me beyond all  understanding.

It’s been that way for over 50 years.

My love for Paris and all things French started at about 12

I have no idea why

The first time I went, I was in my 30’s and I instantly felt I was home.

Since then,

There have been many trips to Paris-

for work and pleasure.

I want to go back again-

one more time…

 not just for a visit.

 My desire is to nest there a while,

not just perch for a few glorious days.

I want to LIVE in Paris-

even if it’s only for a couple of weeks…..

immerse myself and be swept away in the stream of Parisian life,

as a part of Paris….not just as an observer.

There might not be any visits to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower.

Been there, done that.

I just want to BE .

My dream rental would have a small balcony & french doors,

opening onto a vista of crooked little streets and gray slate rooftops that grace

it’s venerated old buildings.

 A spectacular view of some famous landmark is not necessary….

Just a view of the neighborhood will do.

It should be in the 6th arrondisement-

near the Blvd. Saint Germain or the Luxembourg Gardens.

I’ve always stayed in or around St Germain and it feels like home .

Picture rising each morning, throwing open the window and

breathing Paris into your lungs.

Even the first time I went to Paris-

I recognized it in my heart and soul.

I’ve never gone anywhere in the city that has felt unfamiliar or inhospitable.

When I was there with my husband,

he would nap a little in the afternoon and

I would wander the neighborhood

searching the local markets to buy some cheese, bread and wine;

and practice my French.

My rule was :

I needed to ask for it in French or I would not buy it.

My French usually failed me at a Patisserie,

when I was desperate for something

decadent and delicieuse!

More than once, a vendor said to me:

“you are American, aren’t you?”

I said:” how can you tell; is my French that bad”?

 “No- your French is quite good,

but you speak French with an American accent.”

That was something I had never considered before!

Strolling along the Seine, watching the bookinistes-

opening their stalls, brimming with

wonderful books and prints and postcards,

from another time-

you start to dream about what Paris might have

been like a century ago….

What you might have done there had you lived during that time.

Perhaps I would have sat next to Hemingway at Les Deux Magots,

noticed him writing in a notebook;

or bumped into him while browsing through books

at Shakespeare & Company;

where most writers of the time received their mail.

I probably would not have had the vaguest idea who he was.

The echoes of all the great painters, poets, writers and artists who lived there

are still whispers in the air.

The inexplicable force that drew them to Paris is still there, as well.

It is a place of dreams and possibilities.

There are delights every where you look in Paris.

In the Tuileries Gardens,

one can spend an entire afternoon watching children play in a pond

with wooden sail boats-

knowing that a few hundreds yards away

in L’Orangerie,

Monet’s “Water Lilles” are always in bloom,

displayed in an elliptical room that transports you to Giverny

& the lushness of his gardens.

Then, past L’Orangerie you can glimpse the tip of the Eiffel Tower,

rising from a tree -filled horizon.

Turn a little to the right and

there’s the Carousel near Place de la Concorde.

Look behind you and there is the Louvre.

Every where you look, there is beauty.

Your soul comes alive in Paris.

Every thing is art,

Even the light.

You do not see Paris with your eyes.

you absorb it.

Finally, if you are lucky….

it enters your soul.

The innermost part of you somehow reacts

to all the beauty surrounding you.

When that happens…..

The light is different,

the air more fragrant.

Your senses are heightened.

It’s unlike any other place on earth;

and I’ve been to a lot of places.

You don’t go to Paris to observe.

You go to become one with Paris.

You go to be changed…

You go to Paris to be baptized in it’s beauty.

It’s a place where the present and past exist side by side.

Hemingway and Hadley,

Matisse and Modigliani,

Gertrude Stein, James Joyce and Scott Fitzgerald.

There are ghosts everywhere-

in a good way.

I can almost see Capucine posing for Vogue in 1954

at The Cafe des Flores.

That Paris still exists.

There are still so many things I haven’t seen in Paris.

One of them is Pere Lachaise Cemetery.

All the great artists are resting there –

each of them

entombed in great works of art;

the echoes of their genius captured in the quiet rustling of leaves,

behind high iron gates.

Where else could you find all this brilliance in one place?

Modigliani, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Edith Piaf

and Jim Morrison!

The 16 year old girl in me still wants to visit his grave.

Maybe when I live there-

I’ll take a bottle of wine and

Jim & I will finally have our long-overdue talk..

.

The secret of Paris is that you don’t have to do a thing

while you are there.

All you have to do is BE.

Paris does the rest.

The Russian Tea Room  originally opened it’s doors in 1926

in New York City.

Situated around the corner from Carnegie Hall on 57th St,

It  was a Chocolate Shop and Tea Room ,

opened by Expat Dancers from the Russian Royal Ballet,

who had fled Russia to avoid the Bolsheviks.

They wanted to create a little piece of home for their fellow dancers in New York.

The first time I entered this magical realm was as a teenager in the mid 1960’s,

when it was still in it’s original incarnation.

It was so exotic and I felt sophisticated just being there.

( but of course, I wasn’t!)

Every year,when the Holidays come,

I always remember dining at the Russian Tea Room

with my parents.

Trips to New York City were special

and we each had our

favorites for those wonderful occasions.

My choice was always

The Russian Tea Room.

Their Beef Stroganoff was the only thing I ever ordered.

I had no interest in anything else.

It saddens me because

The Original Russian Tea Room is no more.

But then again, nothing is forever.

In fact, since the original Tea Room,

there have been two more incarnations.

I choose to keep those amazing memories undisturbed by the present.

I haven’t been back since the 80’s.

However, I have located the recipe for their

Original Beef Stroganoff.

I believe the original recipe was published in a 1996 issue of Gourmet Magazine.

It’s a luxurious melange of textures and flavors

and it remains one of my absolute favorites.

Consider it for a Holiday party,

Christmas Dinner,

or prepare it some cold, winter night

and dine by the fire.

Whenever you try it-the evening will turn into a special occasion.

The Original Russian Tea Room Beef Stroganoff

1 1/2 lbs Beef Filet

( only use filet)

1 T vegetable oil

3T unsalted butter

1 cup chopped onion

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/2 lb portobello mushroom ( trimmed & sliced)

1/2 cup dry, white wine

1/2 cup beef broth

2 cups sour cream

2 T dijon mustard

Garnish: fresh dill

Directions:  Cut the filet crosswise into 1″ slices, then cut slices into 1/2″ thick strips.

Heat oil and 1 Tbsp butter & sear beef in batches-

30 seconds to 1 minute per side until brown but still rare.

Transfer Beef to platter. Let it rest.

Add remaining 2 tbsp. butter to the pan and cook onion and garlic until soft.

Add mushrooms, mustard, salt and pepper and cook over high.

When liquid from mushrooms evaporates add wine and boil.

Stir in beef broth, sour cream, mustard, beef and cook until heated through.

Serve over buttered noodles and garnish with fresh dill.

naslazhdat’sya

Enjoy!

We should fear the concept of perfection, my friends;

we really should.

It has been responsible for destroying so much joy and satisfaction in the lives of those who pursue it.

I am one of those people.

We  perfectionists function within society ,

looking normal and smart and funny and accomplished.

People are always saying: “oh- you are so talented”.

You can do anything.

No, I can’t!

 Inside is this insidious voice that always says:” You are no good.”

You must be perfect.

Nothing less will do.

Last weekend, I did flowers for a lovely wedding.

The bouquets were amazing,

the tablescapes spectacular ,

the wedding arch was perfection.( haha)

I didn’t charge her for a bunch of things

because I was trying to make things perfect for her.

But I forgot 4 boutonnieres.

Oh my God!

I cannot tell you how awful ( and incredibly stupid I felt)

I don’t make mistakes like this…..

Aside from the weather, I am always in control!

&

I am working on the weather thing!

My weddings are always perfection.

( Except for the outdoor wedding a few weeks ago when an entire cake slid off the table

…. due to the excessive heat)

and hit the grass.

I stood there, frozen with horror.

This never happens to me!

This is a wedding planners’ worst nightmare.

I have heard all sorts of horror stories about things going wrong at weddings;

but until that moment,

I had never experienced any of them.

I mean, things go wrong all the time, but nothing I haven’t been able to fix.

That’s what people in my profession do.

We fix things before anyone notices there was even a problem.

So, today…. after two catastrophes in just a few weeks,

I am feeling demoralized, stupid and completely incompetent.

One of my designers said:” Don’t worry, Jan.

Things like this happen all the time.

Not to me, they don’t!

Until now.

Being good at what you do always brings expectation.

Being really good at what you do suggests you might not have any limitations.

People see what you do and have expectations that nothing will ever go wrong!

So, what do I do?

I suppose I shouldn’t promise perfect.

The thing is- we are all guilty of this!

We all want the PERFECT wedding,

the PERFECT marriage,

the PERFECT children,

the PERFECT House,

The PERFECT Pie Crust

The Perfect Body or whatever…

and it simply does not exist.

We are not capable of perfection.

But when people hire us to provide services to them,

They will settle for nothing less than perfection.

They paid for perfection and they want it.

If it isn’t Perfect-  It’s Crap!

Couldn’t there be something in-between perfection and crap?

Apparently not when money is exchanged.

Here is something I can do:

I will now stop promising perfection.

Perfection is only achieved by chance,

brought to us by the Gods of Fortune.

No amount of talent can produce it.

 I will continue to pursue perfection because I cannot seem to help myself.

The thing is- perhaps in  the process of chasing perfection

I will achieve excellence and

that should be enough for anyone………

even me.

Beginning in 1954 and for over forty years thereafter….

my family frequented a little Italian restaurant in our town,

along the river called:

 Terry’s Tavern.

Driving past this unremarkable structure,

you might not think of stopping,

But if you did stop, you wouldn’t regret it!

In the early days,

the decor consisted of grapevine and plastic bunches of grapes,

hanging from the ceiling;

painted murals of Portofino on the walls and

on each table- red and white checkered cloths and

a chianti bottle hidden under layers of dripping wax.

Italian music was always playing and

I seem to recall listening to a lot of  Jerry Vale!

To this day, when I hear Jerry Vale-

it takes me right back to Terrys.

One of my favorites was “Al di la”,

probably because it was in a 1961 movie called

“Rome Adventure”with Troy Donahue.

I LOVED Troy Donahue.

But I digress……..

 The most important thing was the food.

Terry made the

BEST meatballs, pizza, bread, ravioli, lasagna

(All homemade).

Servers, coming through the swinging doors from the kitchen ,

their arms laden with large oval platters of delicious food,

always had beads of perspiration all over their faces.

It was like a blast furnace in that kitchen!

Terry had huge pots of sauce and meatballs on the giant old stove.

There were steaming pots of spaghetti,

crusty loaves of bread being pulled from the oven

and

my personal favorite…” light as air” lasagne ,

bubbling in it’s own little individual baking dish.

It was heaven. All of it.

There were regular patrons for all the years we went there.

We would all meet on Friday & Saturday nights and chat away with each other.

It was a kind of clubhouse for those of us who came regularly.

We bonded over our love of the food and the place itself;

a delightful little secret unknown to most people- but us!

Bob & Terry owned the restaurant until I was in my late 30’s

and without fail- we ate there every week.

Bob attended to duties as bartender and bon vivant

and

Terry worked in the kitchen,

coming out occasionally for some air and a cigarette!

We used to sit at the “family table” a lot

and they would sit down and talk when they could.

Then, in 1981, they retired and sold the business

to another husband and wife.

She was French, he was Greek.

The food was still good, but

nothing was really ever the same again.

Even in Italy, I never found anything that satisfied

my appetite and my soul

as Terry’s food did.

She gave me her meatball recipe and her sauce recipe,

but even though they were basic and simple to follow,

nothing has ever come close to the deliciousness of the food she created.

My entire life has been a quest to find or duplicate her perfect meatballs.

After years of hoping, dreaming, experimenting,

I’m sad to report:

There is No Perfect Meatball

now that Terry is gone.

I’m sure no matter how magnificent one might be-

it will never satisfy the memory

of those moist, tender, incredibly luscious, perfectly formed orbs

I swooned over so many years ago.

Part of it is the memory of those wonderful experiences we had dining there.

I’m sure the flavor of all that

was some how infused into those meatballs;

a combination never to be found again….

like most childhood experiences.

It’s interesting how many of my wonderful memories involve food and

revolve around meals, picnics, and big family dinners.

 Terry’s meatballs may be gone and

I know I will never find anything that compares.

I have to live with that!

Having said that… here is the good news.

All is not lost!

After years of trying every recipe I could find ,

I recently acquired one from the Meatball Shop in NYC

and I find

those meatballs are almost worthy of my inexplicable obsession with

the meatball- as an art form!

The secret is Ricotta Cheese in your basic meatball recipe!

( the complete recipe follows)

So…. fellow lovers of authentic Italian food…

what have we learned from this life long quest of mine?

Yes, that’s right…..

We cannot ever go back.

When something is gone, it’s gone.

The memory of the food, mixes with the experience surrounding it

and it simply cannot be duplicated.

So, don’t compare something against an old memory.

The old memory always wins.

Just enjoy everything, every day!

And remember:

Perfect meatballs are found but once in a lifetime

and that’s why:

we must settle for merely Great Meatballs.

I think you’ll like these!

Meatball Shop Meatballs

2 lbs ground beef

1 cup ricotta cheese

2 large eggs

1/2 cup bread crumbs

salt & pepper

1 tbsp. oregano

1/2 cup chopped parsley

1/4 tsp red pepper flakes

mix thoroughly with hands,

make golf ball size meatballs,

place on a lightly greased (olive oil) baking sheet

make sure meatballs touch each other

Bake at 450 for 15 min.

Remove from oven, add 1 cup tomato sauce and bake for another 15 minutes.

Remove from oven and place in bubbling sauce.

BUON APPETITO!