Welcome back! I know you’ve all been waiting patiently for my newest five recipes! After pushing back the launch at least 4 times, here they are! Welcome to the “Love Me Sweet” collection, a new collection I’ve made for you all to not only get a man but keep a man! As a housewife myself with this recipe-blog on the side, I’m what my friends would call an expert on marriage and keeping that flame alive. My husband might be ignorant of the work that goes into a relationship, but he sure went all in on this recipe!

These BBQ meatballs will have a man salivating for your cooking and a little more. This recipe is actually a secret passed own to me by my mother, with some changes here and there that suit my tastes. You want more flavor than meat? How about something more sweet than spicy? Or maybe you’d prefer something more on the fiery side like my husband does!

No matter the case and no matter the changes, this recipe will have any man on his knees! Let’s get into it!

Just like any marriage, meatballs are a dish that need to be cohesive in order to stick together. Mixed with just the right amount of spices and the most delectable of meat mixtures, making a meatball is like maintaining a relationship over the years and seeking the love and solace that comes with something so familiar and comfortable.

This is why adding new things that could ruin the marriage, like a blonde hussy named Stacy who thinks your husband is just so funny, can ruin the flavor and the finished look of your meatballs.

Just like adding new things can be dangerous, so can the heat of cooking! Too low of a simmer and you won’t even cook the center, too high and you’ll end up with a dirty pan and a bunch of burnt meatballs before they can even enter an oven. It’s the same in a marriage! When you have the heat too high, it’ll result in fights and arguments between you and your spouse, leading to the impending thought of a divorce! Not to say that too low of a simmer in a relationship is any better. One spouse could be lying completely about the spark between you, leaving a cold center between you two while he’s off with Stacy in the church parking lot making sure that his lap stays warm.

Nonetheless, keep an eye on your meatballs (and your relationship) to ensure that they’re not only deliciously lovely but thoroughly cooked!

When I met my husband, Geoffrey, I was a college girl on my way to success.

I was getting ready to get my law degree, everything was coming up to my luck the more that I went on to further support my career. I met Geoffrey, and suddenly every dream I ever had was stomped on. I was told that I didn’t need to become a career girl anymore.

So I’d say that your first step to making meatballs as well as having a life of mediocrity would be to find a man who says he’ll take care of you. He’ll convince you that your degree is useless, you’ll bend and get married to him only a few months after meeting, and eventually he’ll tell you how he’s quit his third job of the year and is looking for a career change.

Your second step to disappointment in this life you’ve chosen is to create this silly little blog, hoping to gain ad revenue and show people the things you’ve forced yourself to learn as a housewife who never so much as touched a stove to cook meatloaf before she was married. So you make a blog, you give advice, and you try to earn money for your husband to feel like he’s a big man. Outside of all this you go to church, you keep a smile, and you clutch your pearls like the shell of a woman that you are, marinating the anger inside you as your husband walks out of the only other job that would take him.

Next, you watch as he picks himself off the damn couch and begins to go to “work” at a bar every night, lying to you that this job wanted him, requested him even. You think that this is finally the start of your relationship going back into the honeymoon phase, how this is the start of something new between you two with him finally showing you the man he used to be when you were younger.

You don’t get suspicious in the slightest when he mentions Stacy.

You don’t blink when your brown hair is replaced with cheap blonde hair dye with black at the root on his clothes.

You don’t even notice how he’s suddenly looking to get in shape.

No, you suck it up and smile thinking that maybe there’s just some girls getting a little handsy while he works the bar. Nothing to be worried about when he’s working hard to finally bring you some money.

You live like this for 6 months until your next step. One day, your pastor asks for you to bring something sweet to church for an after service conversation. You get all dressed in your church clothes, wearing your pastel flats and pearls, even putting on the little silk gloves your husband said would make you much more feminine. The peach cobbler you made is nice and warm, and you requested there be a tub of vanilla ice cream in the church fridge. Your hands are a little slippery as you carry your Tupperware out of the car, looking around and noticing you’re one of the only cars in the lot.

Your husband didn’t come with you, he said that there was just no way he could with how tired he was from the late shift he worked.

So when you see his truck parked in the lot, locking lips with a whore from the bar, you don’t even feel the pyrex dish slip from your hands. You stand there, open mouthed as he pulls away from her, eyes locking on yours as he struggles to open the car door. By now you’re on autopilot and walking back to your car, not even realizing that your marinating is done.

You could get a divorce, hell you could even throw his shit out the window. Yet for some reason, those two locking lips brought out something in you, something that leads to your last step.

Geoffrey needs to go, so you tell him to come by the house to pick up everything he had. He brings the slut.

It’s like your body is still on autopilot, the anger has become some attempt at preserving your sanity as you watch him come in and out with boxes filled with his things.

It’s satisfying to wait for his back to be turned while you’re talking to him about the impending divorce. It’s even more satisfying when Stacy screams at seeing him fall to the ground after a single stab to the gut. Really Geoffrey, your exercise did nothing for you if all you could manage in response was a weak little groan. Stacy was even easier, went out like a light the moment she saw a speck of blood.

I could have been a lot more ladylike, slip something into his Tennessee whiskey like the songs love to do about poor disparaged ladies. But why not finally include him in the unwanted hobby I was forced into?

No one ever reads this, and those of you who are probably think this is an elaborate prank. It’s not. The love I forced myself into was real, and the screams of agony that left his mouth as I plunged my favorite knife into his left eye was real, too. It was real the way I found out that human meat is easy to pass through a grinder and reuse for this recipe of BBQ meatballs, and it was real when I took our wedding rings and finally decided that silver didn’t suit me.

He never really cared for my opinion anyways.

Maybe it’s time to put that law degree to use when someone decides to finally blab, but who knows.

At least they can finally be together in my “Love Me Sweetly” Collection.