Food For Thought

          The back of my metal fork squished my noodles into the bottom of the plate, spreading around the white sauce allowing the steam to billow out from the insides of the now broken shells. My five siblings sat around the table taking their turns doing the same as my dad scooped a heap of bubbling pasta onto each of our plates. After my parents had their portions, we clasped hands and bowed our heads over the dishes. I could feel the warmth radiating onto my face; I pulled the redolent air into my nose as I opened a single eye, grinning with anticipation for my dad to say the beautiful word “amen”. And then, in a moment of blessing, I heard the word echoed around the table. It was finally time to dig into my momma’s mac ‘n’ cheese.

          Dinner, especially Sunday dinner, had always been an important family event growing up. In my childhood, Sunday dinners were a mandatory bonding event full of laughter and homemade dinners. The actual food itself never make a meal or a dish, but the memories and meanings associated with that food are, to this day, what make it special.

While Sundays were a day of spending time together, Saturdays had always consisted of preparing for the next day. As often as possible, my mom would be making mac ‘n’ cheese. This always began with the setting up of two pots: one shiny steel one, about the height of my skinny four-year-old arms, and one old dull pot with wooden handles and a warped base that didn’t quite sit even on the stove top. The former would be filled with water to boil the pasta while the latter was designated to the magical cream sauce. Spices, butter, cheese and milk were stirred into a thick liquid, needing to be stirred constantly, causing my young body and mind to become bored and tired. Once both pieces were ready, they would be mixed in a crock pot to be baked the following morning while we were at church.

Despite the family considering this my mom’s mac ‘n’ cheese, the “family” recipe had actually been passed down from my dad’s side of the family, or so we all thought. There was a macaroni and cheese recipe that had been passed down for generations. My dad told me of how his entire family was a part of the recipe tradition, “Aunt Kris also made that mac ‘n’ cheese. So that was like our family recipe mac ‘n’ cheese because it came from my grandmother–who was from Maine by the way. So, this was probably an authentic Maine mac ‘n’ cheese recipe.” This dish was a part of his family and childhood as much as it has been a part of mine. He used to brag about his mom’s mac ‘n’ cheese in the same way I used to brag about mine. He has memories of this meal for as long as he can remember. However, I recently learned that I have actually never had the mac ‘n’ cheese that he looks back on so fondly.

Before I was born, my aunt and my mom would exchange recipes all the time. Once, Aunt Kris found a mac ‘n’ cheese recipe in a magazine that seemed simpler than the one she was used to making, so she tried it out and made it for a birthday party. My parents liked the dish so much they asked for the recipe. This is the recipe my family makes all the time now for the family and any events we attend. My dad said, “it’s known as the Minieri’s marvelous mac ‘n’ cheese. But it was actually online somewhere, and we don’t even know where it came from. Everybody always loves that recipe; and I guess it’s kind of ours now from squatter’s rights.” Everyone knows of this specific recipe associated with my family. We have brought it to every potluck, holiday, or community event where we were asked to bring food. The dish became so associated with us that when anyone asked for the recipe, they were never able to make it quite the same. Because of this, whenever we had guests over to our house, they would request this mac ‘n’ cheese to be made for dinner. We have this connection to a dish that we stumbled upon by accident, and now it is this symbol of family and sharing amongst not only my own family, but many others that know us.   

For as long as my memory will go back, I have been eating my mom’s macaroni and cheese. Leftovers reheated into chalky mush still tasted a great deal better than any boxed Kraft for Monday’s lunch. Not only did my family and I love this dish, but so has anyone that has ever tried it. When I asked my dad why he thought I loved it so much he answered, “When we would have it, we would make a huge batch, everybody in the family loved it, and we all had a good time eating loads and loads of mac ‘n’ cheese. It was something we could make a lot of because we have a huge family and we could make a gigantic batch without it costing a whole lot of money.” This meal was more than just something that tasted good, it was a tradition. Piling our plates full of it, eating as much as we wanted, feel full to the brim, and then running around outside together made my childhood what it was. Having traditions and routines, especially those involved with food, brought my family together.

When I was five years old, my mom suffered a stroke, cutting off blood flow and destroying part of her brain. This was a difficult time for my family to cope with, for the large reason of her not being able to make us food anymore. For a child, routines are essential in development, and without these home-cooked meals, our weekly traditions were ruptured. My mom was in the hospital and therapy for the next four years. Because of this, we did not get any of our favorite meals for very often. Thankfully, families in our church and community prepared meals for us to have a few times a week. However, this meant my five siblings and I were forced to eat chili twelve times per week and to try new dishes, like chicken divan, no matter how disgusting, because we were all thankful to get a hot meal on our plates.

One week, as he was trying to recreate a “normal Sunday afternoon”, my dad decided he wanted to try and make mom’s mac ‘n’ cheese, he chose me–my mom’s usual cooking partner–to help figure this out. I had made it with her dozens of times before, but this time felt different. Standing on the short blue step stool, tip toeing over the pot, I scraped the bottom of the metal pot with the metal of a wiry bent whisk. Without my mom’s constant reminders, I neglected the constant stirring. For the most part, we were able to mess up every part of the recipe possible: from ruining our mom’s favorite pots by burning the sauce, to using the condiment mustard instead of the spice. It was difficult to make a dish that represented our family without our whole family present.

When my mom returned home and was able to start cooking for us, we did not continue with all of the same meals we were used to having. Our whole family became much more contentious about health, my dad even making the choice to go vegan for several years. That being said, the tradition of Sunday dinner mac ‘n’ cheese remained diminished. However, I feel that the scarcity of the dish made it that much more special when we were able to enjoy it. Tasting the meal still brings me back to the joy of my childhood, and to this day no one can make it like my mom can.

Favorite meals are so much more than a dish that tastes good. I have dozens of foods that I like, but my favorites always come from having memories associated with them. My memories of my family’s macaroni and cheese stretch back as long as I can remember eating solid foods and symbolize the importance of family and not taking them for granted. The traditions and rituals associated with making this recipe, as well as both the joyful and sad memories connected to it, make my mom’s macaroni and cheese my favorite dish.