Holly A. Heyser
Yeah, I am still on my meatball bender. A few days after gorging on my Italian duck meatballs, my mum sent me her mother's recipe for Swedish meatballs, also known as köttbullar. Also known as crack.
I had made Swedish meatballs all of once before this experiment, and while they were good, they weren't great; the IKEA ones were better. I never knew my grandmother so I can't remember her ever making Swedish meatballs, but I do have several strong memories of Mum making these little balls of yum long ago, in the ...
... Seventies! Of course we ate Swedish meatballs in the 1970s—everyone did. They were right next to the fondue. But even this was simply withdrawal symptoms of the Swede Ball's heyday a decade earlier. Can't you just see the chafing dish, the Sterno, and the meatballs nestled in that slowly-congealing-yet-somehow-irresistible gravy? Groovy, baby, yeah!
Yet of all the crazy throwback foods of that much-maligned decade, Swedish meatballs are high on the list for preservation. If you've eaten well-made ones, can any among you honestly say you have not stuffed yourself on them? What the hell is it about these meatballs? I've eaten several dozen at a sitting before, only to feel later like an anaconda that swallowed a cow—made of butter.
Butter. Maybe that's it? Every decent recipe calls for obscene amounts of butter. The gravy is part drippings from frying the meatballs in butter, flour, stock and, in some cases, lingonberry syrup or jelly. Still, I've eaten lots of rich things before without succumbing to gluttony.
Maybe it is a Swedish meatball's size. Small. Bite-sized, to be exact. Dangerous. My Italian meatballs are big, honking brontosaurus balls; you need at least three bites to get one down. These little Swedish meatballs are just a tablespoon. That's not so much. Maybe I'll have just one more ...
At any rate, after reading Gramma's recipe I just had to make these meatballs again. But I decided to make my own version an homage to the epicenter of Scandihoovia in North America: Minnesota. The idea started with my friend Elise, who has another hunting friend who had shot a moose this season, although probably not in Minnesota. Elise gave me a big slab of the moose meat, a slab I had designs on.
OK, I have something of a sick sense of humor, so I was waiting to cook the moose until I got a chance to hunt squirrels this year. I wanted to combine the two in one dish. Maybe a Russian-inspired dish, which would of course be called "Rocky & Bullwinkle." Don't get it? You're too young.
But my torn Achilles tendon put the kibosh on that. So I still had this moose, and when the Swedish meatball urge hit me, it was only natural that I use it for them. It was my first time with moose, and I found it a lot like beef—lean beef, to be sure, but it had a fairly coarse grain and was very light-colored compared to venison. I fried up a piece and it was mild, almost sweet. Note to self: save money for a moose hunt someday.