Everybody Has a Story: Childhood taste of real Swedish meatballs begins an epic quest

I first encountered Swedish meatballs as a 7-year-old while on a family trip to Seattle. An older uncle and his Swedish-born wife invited us to dinner. No children graced their home. Instead, they lavished attention on an overweight cocker spaniel. The dining room with oak paneling matched the subdued tone while we ate.

My aunt placed a bowl of meatballs on the table. I scooped up a spoonful and took a bite.

“Tell auntie the Swedish meatballs are wonderful,” I whispered to my mother. “Ask for the recipe.”

My aunt reported she cooked by feel. No recipe to share.

Conversation ceased when my aunt served the cocker spaniel meatballs on a Spode china plate. Our family owned an outside dog known to guzzle from garbage cans. Slack-jawed, we stared as this house dog slurped up the food.

Through the years, finding authentic Swedish meatballs proved to be elusive. While a young adult, I searched family genealogy and discovered Swedish-speaking Finnish relatives.

I visited the Finnish ancestral home site. A cousin served Swedish meatballs. Marvelous meatballs! My cousin armed me with a recipe and told me where in Helsinki to purchase the needed seasoning mix. The store offered numerous herb mixes. I chose one.

At home, I mixed up a batch of Swedish meatballs. They turned out inedible. We fed them to the dog — sans the Spode. I concluded I’d picked out a mix of medicinal herbs rather than culinary herbs. Our dog suffered no ill effects.

Years later while on a train ride across Sweden, I salivated in anticipation of Swedish meatballs. Between train stations, I grilled local Swedish citizens. “Where do you go to enjoy authentic Swedish meatballs?”

Their unanimous answer: “We go to Grandma’s house.”

“So, when you go to a restaurant,” I asked, “what do you order?”

“Pizza.” “Chinese.”

At a medieval castle, I ambled over a drawbridge spanning a moat and continued my meatball quest. On the castle grounds, staff sold snacks but no meatballs.

Giving up, I headed toward town. Nearby, I spotted a restaurant with wrought iron tables on the patio. I scanned a menu and discovered Swedish meatballs on the children’s menu.

“Are these authentic Swedish meatballs?” I asked the waiter.

“Yes, the cook makes them fresh every day.”

“I’ll have an order, please.”

“Sorry,” the waiter said. “They are only for children.”

“I’ll pay more for the meatballs.”

The waiter collected my menu. “I’ll consult the cook.”

A crowd of restaurant staff circled my table as I pleaded my case to the cook, and he relented.

The waiter served me a platter of steamy nuggets of goodness nestled beside potatoes. I reached for my notebook and camera to record the culinary triumph.

Sometimes in science, one studies an organism by dissecting it. In the learning process, the organism dies. I wondered if, when I traveled, I spent too much time dissecting and recording and not enough time enjoying the experience.

I tucked away the notebook and camera, leaned back in my chair and savored Swedish meatballs.

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