No one can resist a good cheese ball

For years, the cheese ball has been my quiet party superpower. Whenever I’m hosting — or even lightly conscripted into bringing “something snacky” — it’s the dish people inevitably circle back to, buttery Ritz in hand, doing that little half-apology as they go in for just one more swipe. I’ve learned not to fight it. A well-made cheese ball has gravitational pull.

No surprise: the appeal is practically baked into my DNA.

Visits to my grandmother’s house always began in the same place: the refrigerator. Inside, like a little tableau of Midwestern abundance, lived three constants — her elbow macaroni salad freckled with red pepper and green onion; slabs of apple cake chilled so cold the white icing turned glossy; and, most importantly, her cheese ball. It was a marvel of its genre: cream c