The Ziti That Took Flight

A romantic dinner turned meatball massacre—and a lesson learned.

I was about 25, still in the early days of my marriage, and determined to impress my husband with a homemade dinner. I’d planned the whole thing: baked ziti with homemade sauce from scratch, a side of homemade meatballs, and that proud, “Look what I did” moment every young wife & home cook dreams of.

I spent hours in the kitchen. The sauce simmered to perfection, the meatballs were tender and flavorful, and the ziti was layered with love and cheese. I taste-tested everything, knowing that once it was warmed through and the cheese melted into that glorious gooeyness, it would be a dinner to remember.

I preheated the oven, slid the dish in, and set the timer. When it dinged, my husband had just walked in from work. He sniffed the air and said, “Wow, that smells amazing!” I beamed. “It’s baked ziti,” I said proudly. “Coming out right now.”

I grabbed my potholders, opened the oven, and pulled the rack out to retrieve the dish. That’s when I noticed it kept sliding - too far, too fast! I instinctively stopped it with the potholder still on my hand, but that abrupt motion was all it took.

The glass baking dish - smooth bottomed and full of momentum - launched forward like a 747 on takeoff. It hit the edge of the oven door and exploded into action. Ziti. Sauce. Meatballs. All over the floor.

Dinner was ruined. The kitchen looked like a crime scene from a marinara massacre.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just stood there in shock with my mouth open like a guest at Gladys’s potluck who just realized the “ambrosia” has mayonnaise in it! Ewwww!

And as I stared at the carnage, one childhood song came flooding back:

On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball, when somebody sneezed… It rolled off the table and onto the floor, and then my poor meatball rolled right out the door. It rolled under a bush and when I got there, It was nothing but mush… 

Lesson Learned

Earlier that day, I’d cleaned the oven. When I put the racks back in, I unknowingly reversed them—so the curved ends designed to stop the rack from sliding out were now on the wrong side. That tiny detail turned my romantic dinner into a meatball memorial.

This wasn’t just dinner- it was a Mush Moment. And the first of many.

 The Mush Meter™

A rating system for hosting mishaps, measuring the emotional fallout and cleanup chaos. Think of it as Yelp for your own fiascos.

Mush Level Description 🟢 Mush Level 1: Minor Mayhem A small hiccup. No tears, no stains, just a story for later. 🟡 Mush Level 2: Moderate Mush Some cleanup required. Guests noticed. You laughed eventually. 🔴 Mush Level 3: Full Mush Meltdown Emotional damage. Food casualties. Possibly a therapy session.

 

The Frozen Lamb & the Fermented Host: An Easter BBQ Fiasco™

Intro:

Easter Sunday, circa 1999. I was armed with a boneless leg of lamb, a grill, and a wine glass that never emptied. What could go wrong?

This is a True Story!

It was Easter weekend, circa 1999. I was 37, armed with a boneless leg of lamb, a charcoal grill, and a wine glass that had clearly signed up for overtime. The plan? Cook the lamb on Saturday so Sunday could be all reheating and revelry. The flaw? I forgot to defrost it!

No problem, I thought. I’d just toss it on the grill - low and indirect heat should do the trick, like a gentle spa treatment for protein. Five hours later, the lamb was still suspiciously solid in the center, and I was suspiciously tipsy.

Cue the call to my brother, who had no idea he was about to become the emergency hotline for meat mismanagement.

Tommy: “How long’s it been on?” 

Me: “Five hours.” 

Tommy: “FIVE HOURS?” 

Me: “Yes.” 

Tommy: “Are the coals hot?” 

Me: “Yes.” 

Tommy: “Are you maintaining the temperature?” 

Me: “Yes.” 

Tommy: “Did you let the meat come to room temp first?” 

Me: “No, because it was frozen when I started.

Tommy: Silence... “Wait - how much wine have you had?”

At this point, he started laughing so hard I thought he might choke on his own culinary dignity. I had left out two critical details:

1. The lamb was frozen when it hit the grill.
2. I had been drinking wine. A lot of wine.

He told me to bump up the heat, maybe even go direct heat. I complied, still sipping, still hopeful. Eventually, the lamb cooked through - sort of. It was edible with a reheat the next day, but only after a journey that involved denial - defrosting denial, and a brother who now refuses to discuss food-related calls from me without a sobriety check first!

 

The Frozen Fumble Scale™

Category Rating (1–5 Fumbles) Notes Thaw Strategy ❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️ Started frozen. Stayed frozen. Grill Technique ❄️❄️❄️ Indirect heat + wine = slow-motion suspense. Troubleshooting Drama ❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️ Brother’s reaction deserves its own sitcom. Flavor Redemption ❄️❄️❄️❄️ Once thawed, it had promise. Host Awareness ❄️❄️ Forgot to defrost. Forgot to disclose. Forgot to hydrate (with water). Wine-to-Wisdom Ratio™ ❄️❄️❄️❄️❄️ High wine. Low wisdom. Maximum entertainment