Prosciutto Balls; Plus, Shame -- an Introduction
I am lucky to have moved from a land where people relish eating the testicles of cattle (South Dakota) to a land where people enjoy eating a much more palatable ball -- the prosciutto ball.
Carroll Gardens, my neighborhood in Brooklyn, is not only lovely, but is populated by a good number of old Italian families who still make their favorites and sell them to all the dinks, yuppies and encroaching hordes of hipsters who threaten to completely engulf the 'hood in kitschy shops, bars with indie jukeboxes and expensive baby-clothes shops. For now, though, the balance works. We increase their property values, I suppose, and they tolerate us.
ANYWAY, awhile back I read this article in the New York Times about this place a block from my house from which you could purchase prosciutto balls, which the writer made sound very delicious -- molten, crispy, hardly greasy, fried balls of prosciutto, mozzerella and ricotta. They sounded heavenly but I discovered they also sold them at Giardini's nearby so I just started getting them there.
Wow, was that a mistake. I finally made it over to Joe's Superette the other day (look for the shady-looking storefront with a missing "U" in Superette, on Smith near first place, across the street from the school) and they put the Giardini's prosciutto balls to shame. Walk in, ignoring hunch that it's probably some kind of money-laundering scheme. Ask the nice man at the counter if you can have four prosciutto balls, six if you are very, very hungry and can tolerate that much fat in one sitting. They are fifty cents apiece.
They are addictive. Consider yourself warned.
On another note, I think I am going to be starting a series on "shame" here. Why? Well, who knows. I stopped seeing my shrink so maybe I feel the need to spill my guts to someone, and none of my friends are interested anymore. Maybe I want to make you feel better when you go through your own shameful experiences. You can just think to yourself, "Well, that wasn't NEARLY as bad as what happened to that crazy internet lady." Maybe embarassment (suffered in public) is a yoke easier borne than shame (suffered in private).
For the record, I probably won't be spilling my MOST SHAMEFUL experiences. On a scale of one to ten, I shall be sharing shame stories that rank somewhere on a scale from 2s to 8s, I suppose.
I know you *can't wait.*
Carroll Gardens, my neighborhood in Brooklyn, is not only lovely, but is populated by a good number of old Italian families who still make their favorites and sell them to all the dinks, yuppies and encroaching hordes of hipsters who threaten to completely engulf the 'hood in kitschy shops, bars with indie jukeboxes and expensive baby-clothes shops. For now, though, the balance works. We increase their property values, I suppose, and they tolerate us.
ANYWAY, awhile back I read this article in the New York Times about this place a block from my house from which you could purchase prosciutto balls, which the writer made sound very delicious -- molten, crispy, hardly greasy, fried balls of prosciutto, mozzerella and ricotta. They sounded heavenly but I discovered they also sold them at Giardini's nearby so I just started getting them there.
Wow, was that a mistake. I finally made it over to Joe's Superette the other day (look for the shady-looking storefront with a missing "U" in Superette, on Smith near first place, across the street from the school) and they put the Giardini's prosciutto balls to shame. Walk in, ignoring hunch that it's probably some kind of money-laundering scheme. Ask the nice man at the counter if you can have four prosciutto balls, six if you are very, very hungry and can tolerate that much fat in one sitting. They are fifty cents apiece.
They are addictive. Consider yourself warned.
On another note, I think I am going to be starting a series on "shame" here. Why? Well, who knows. I stopped seeing my shrink so maybe I feel the need to spill my guts to someone, and none of my friends are interested anymore. Maybe I want to make you feel better when you go through your own shameful experiences. You can just think to yourself, "Well, that wasn't NEARLY as bad as what happened to that crazy internet lady." Maybe embarassment (suffered in public) is a yoke easier borne than shame (suffered in private).
For the record, I probably won't be spilling my MOST SHAMEFUL experiences. On a scale of one to ten, I shall be sharing shame stories that rank somewhere on a scale from 2s to 8s, I suppose.
I know you *can't wait.*
posted by Had To Move at 1:13 PM
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