Meatballs and Memories

It's been a while and I apologize to my regular readers...all three of you. including my mother.

First, let's take care of business. I am running 100% again after a slight ankle injury and feel great. No discomfort or pain. I hope the ankle sprain was the last injury and stumbling block I have to face before the mini marathon.

I registered for the Louisville Triple Crown of racing today, finally. That means my first official race is March 3rd, the Anthem 5k. I eat 5ks for breakfast now, but if you asked me three months ago to run 5k, I would have laughed uncontrollably before becoming overcome with nausea. Now, 5k is just a regular weekly workout. I do; however, have a time goal in mind for the race. I would like to run it in 31'30" or less.

I had a great run today. The temperature is finally climbing out of the basement, making the workouts more enjoyable. Some of those days I recently ran, the temperature never topped 20 degrees. When I ran today, the temp outside was around 40 degrees which felt like a heat wave. All in all, it was a good relaxing run. My pace was good and finished strong. I stopped a bit shy of my 45 minute goal due to some wretched side splits that would not go away. I attribute them to my pasta and meatballs I had for lunch.

I made the meatballs on Sunday on a whim. Robin was upstairs taking a nap and the kids were off entertaining themselves. Out of boredom, I looked in the fridge to see what I could conjure. Ground beef, good. On the window seat in the kitchen lay a huge bundle of fresh garlic Robin bought to make garlic-rosemary mashed potatoes. What do you get when you mix garlic and meat? Garlic balls!

My father made the most famous (or infamous) meatballs in our entire family. Everyone agreed, they tasted the best. His secret was loads and loads of garlic. I can remember many a Saturday afternoon, my dad watching the tiny black and white TV tuned to channel 11. The Yankees would be playing a matinee and Dad would listen as he crafted a meal for us. He loved to cook, especially for the people he loved. It's a tradition I've tried to carry on in my family. Saturday and Sunday mornings are my time to feed everyone, just like my father.

So I made classic Don Hering garlic balls. I cooked some in the sauce, and left a handful out just like my Dad always did. My son, Jack, sat at the kitchen island as I stood by the stove, frying up my golf ball sized garlic bombs. As I put the finished meatballs on a paper towel to sop up the excess frying grease, Jack would pilfer a snack and scamper back to his seat. He reminds me of what I was like when I was his age.

You never realize how much influence your parents have on you until you really think. In every way that Sunday afternoon I emulated my father. Not consciously, mind you, but out of habit. I watched him do the very same thing hundreds of times. By the time I started cooking, it was rote. Despite being something of a slob, I also inherited my father's obsessive cleanliness in the kitchen. I never saw a kitchen so spotless as when my father cooked a meal. I try to do the same, although my wife may differ on that opinion.

I think on my father quite often. Many times, when I'm struggling during a run I imagine him encouraging me to continue. He always expressed such pride in his children, in everything we did. I'd like to think he's proud of me now. That on some strange plane of existence he can see what I'm doing and is glad. I hope.

On Saturday, I needed my father to finish a particularly brutal run. When I began my run, the snow just started to fall. I planned to run 10k up and down the rolling hills of Shelby County. Mid way through the run, the snow really started to coming down. But these weren't gentle fluffy snow-poofs falling from the sky. No, this was an angry snow, driven by the wind into my side. At one point I looked down at my pullover and saw the black fleece turned gray. My sweat froze on the outside of the fleece, changing the shade of my warm outer shell.

I finished the run, thanks in part to the imagery I conjured up. "Keep going, keep going", I would hear in my head, the soothing sound of my father's gentle voice.

I kept going.