That's a Spicy Meatball! by Amelia Tigertail

If I lived in Sweden I'd still be wearing a woolen hat and gloves. Definitely a scarf, a long one I could wrap at least twice around my neck, and then tie in a bulky knot and tuck into my down knee-length coat. Moonboots would be an option, if they weren't so out of style. They have been, since the 4th grade. But, whatever. No other shoe maker has yet duplicated their cloud-like cush and foot-loving warmth. Mine were hot pink. God, I loved them.

Yesterday's high was 29. And that's discounting the windchill. My grandma shoveled a snow-cleared path to her mailbox. Clad in full ski gear, I imagine, one hand grasping her wooden cane, the other gripping my grandfather's old shovel. So goes life in the Nordic hemisphere. Cold? Naturally. But my goodness, just think about the food.

I heard once that most kids are born during the summer. Couples, it seems, get that procreational itch when the winds blow and late afternoon temperatures beg for fires and cinnamon-scented candles. No wonder baby Swedes are popping up left and right. What else can you do when the snowflakes fall and daylight ends at 3pm?

The answer? Eat. Consume vast amounts of comforting food, the kind that melts inside, warms your soul, and encourages lovin' of all kinds. See, there's got to be a perk or two for living in sub-zero climates. I'm sure the kind folks in Minnesota have already figured this one out.

But for us Southern city-dwellers, the sunshine smiles 10 months out of the year, and Christmas is rarely white. And if it is, it's gone by the time Santa Claus arrives in early evening. But thanks to the wonders of the lovely room known as the kitchen, you and your culinary lover of choice, can glean a bit of the sensuous magic the Swedes rely on year round.

It's all about meatballs. They're round, tiny, and flecked with tempting bits of green parsley. You roll them in your palms--interspersed with generous sips of wine, of course--plop them in the pan and move your body to the sizzle of the skillet. Mmmm...as the lovely aroma wafts through candlelight and envelops your limbs, remove that bulky shirt, and instead don a sexy camisole with your faded jeans. Run your fingers through your hair, take a deep breath, and revel in home cooked juices spattering from the stove.

But first, the ingredients. For a romantic rendezvous a deux, you'll need the following:

1 1/2 pounds of ground beef
1 onion, grated
1 egg
1 cup bread crumbs
1 bunch of curly parsley, minced
4 cloves of garlic, minced
salt and pepper
butter

Before you begin, an appropriate mood is oh-so vital. After you lather yourself in the shower with your favorite scented gel--raspberry is always divine--stand naked in front of the mirror, with a generous glass of wine poured by your side, and look at your body. Revel in your curves, touch your nipples, and really, feel free to blow yourself a kiss. This is your time. And you are about to prepare an orgasmic meal--the sexier you feel, the better. Find your favorite lotion--again, I must insert that raspberry does wonders--and rub it all over your body. Smooth. Soft. And supple. Delicious.

Next, it's time for clothes. This meal calls for jeans. Preferably worn in, ripped (at the butt, ideally), and fitting. If you've got a black, strappy camisole, wear it. If not, any revealing, skin-showing, breast-enhancing creation will do just fine. Feet should be bare, toenails painted red, and you're good to go. Oh, and if you've got a whimsical sparklingly sexy barrette lying around, tousle your hair (try Bedhead, it's an incredible hair stick!), and casually clip it into an unassuming place. Perfume. Minimal makeup. And remember, no belt. The point is to show a little belly here.

Now you're ready. Head to the kitchen, and sauté the onion and garlic until golden. Once the aroma begins to fill your nooks, remove the onion and garlic and begin to mix all the ingredients together. Forget wooden spoons and unsexy forks--use your hands. Turn and rub and squeeze and breathe and FEEL the mixture slide between your fingers. Hum to yourself. Sip some more wine. And knead with passion. Think of lust. Dream of life. And believe in the powers of food.

When everything is nicely combined, add a generous pat of real butter to your skillet, listen for the seductive sizzle as it begins to melt, and begin rolling the meatballs between the palms of your hands. They should be quite tiny. Less than an inch in diameter. Plop them into the skillet, one by one, as you roll them. Drink more wine. Roll some more. And if your lover has arrived, ask him or a delicious her for a little help. Form, sip, and plop. Over and over and over. As the patter and crackle and lust-filled aroma begins to spread, remove from pan, glide onto plate, and repeat until you're ready to dine.

As for a side, I recommend mashed potatoes. Creamy, sinful, and the perfect prelude to that moment when the camisole is removed, your nipples erect, and...

Ooops, I almost got carried away. The rest, dear lovely, I leave to you....Who ever said winter was cold?