When I first moved to New York, I lived off a bag of frozen Ikea meatballs for a really long time. You plunk four or five into a microwavable bowl and in about a minute you have piping hot meatballs begging on their wobbly round knees for a bit of lingonberry jam by the same maker to enrobe them. Sometimes I still crave this pairing but luckily am deterred by the difficulties which a trip to Ikea presents. This makes up the bulk of my adult experience with jam, until a few days ago.
