Over the holidays, in San Antonio, I made “Swedish meatballs” for the fam. I put that in quotes because I’m not exactly sure what makes meatballs Swedish except having sour cream in the gravy, and that’s the only claim to Swedish-ness these meatballs could claim. They were frozen meatballs, and all I did was make a gravy to simmer them in (with sour cream, thank you).
They turned out pretty well, all things considered, and my niece asked for the recipe for the gravy. This is what I gave her:
Make a roux.
Add beef broth & cook ’til smooth.
Stir in a few spoonfuls of sour cream.
Salt & pepper to taste.
That’s the way my mother wanted to give us recipes, and it always aggravated me to death. “How much water?” “Oh, enough.” “But how much? A cup? Half a cup? Two cups…?” “As much as you need to make it look right.”
But now I find that’s exactly what I mean now when I say, “Some.”
I apologize to my mother. (Again.)