I come from a country that does not have IKEA. People kept telling me about this magical place, where all your furniture dreams coexist in a beautiful ecosystem of labyrinthical showrooms. When I moved to my most recent place here in London, I needed a desk and a chair (to, you know, write blogs and… stuff). So it was the perfect opportunity to pop my IKEA cherry.
Little did I know that IKEA is not only about impossible to put together furniture, but also of some fine, Michelin star caliber cuisine. They have a cafeteria, and the star in that cafeteria is the Swedish meatballs, served with gravy and mash.
I have no idea what kind of animal(s) are used in the making of this highly addictive balls, and I’m not sure I’d like to know. All I know is they are mystical balls, balls of wisdom and hope, and it will be the only time I ever write that I enjoyed the delicious taste of balls. Bathed in the slippery goodness of days old gravy, and coupled with some creamy mash, it turned the horrific experience that is IKEA shopping into a memorable one.
And I bought a desk and a chair. And some dishes. And a lamp. And, of course, several bags of frozen balls.
Slimy? It’s balls swimming in gravy. It’s the definition of slimyness.
Satisfying? It’s the sort of flavor that takes you back to your childhood. Let’s just say two bags of frozen Swedish meatballs lasted me no longer than a week.
Everywhere (except where I was born, apparently)