Meatballs a'coming

The multiple pounds of ground meat sitting in my fridge beckon insistently:Come, mix us with eggs, lemon zest, Parm and bread; Shape us into dozens of balls, fry us gently and simmer us in the vat of bubbling sauce. Oliver is craving us, Tom will be psyched, your freezer is bereft over the absence of us there. Your meatballer begs for use, you've got plastic gloves on hand (no pun intended), a chill is slated to make the evening a cool one, perfect for a bowl of steaming pasta, and us.