I’ve already cut myself twice in the pursuit of meatballs and marinara tonight and I haven’t even opened the bottle of wine yet. Seems promising

Don’t worry, all 10 fingers are still intact. Proceed with the mise en place!

Now cooking with only one house slipper on. Wine consumption still at zero.

Apron’s on point though.

Mom always says to get me a man who isn’t afraid of garlic and onion (or shallot, in this particular case)

Personally, I’d settle for a man who would just be willing to cut onions for me. I go within five feet of an onion and my eyes instantly catch on fire

Fun fact: while I enjoy slices of tomato, I realllllly don’t like cherry tomatoes. The popping thing and the guts in your mouth is just

We have sauce!

2nd sidenote: my olive oil stopper is an oil lamp and I love it so much. I estimate half of my kitchen utensils are masquerading as something else.

Meatballs have been nestled into the baking pan and tucked in with sauce and pillows of mozzarella. We are ready to bake.

“But where did the meatballs come from?!” you may ask yourself. As it turns out, globs of raw meat in a pan don’t make for good photos. Just trust it was done. I did sing to them, which I’m told is obligatory for the most authentic taste.

The Meatball Song got a reprise for the oven. Bonus: it’s to the tune of a Hocus Pocus song, which instantly makes it Halloween themed and therefore, 100% better.

Remember: the broil is your friend, but WATCH IT LIKE A HAWK.

*in best Chef Ramsay voice* And THAT is how you make meatballs and marinara worthy of making your Italian grandmother proud.