The Mac and Cheese Rebellion
An homage, on Thanksgiving
I always think of my Nana on Thanksgiving. She was the family cook. In her honor, I thought I would post this piece inspired by her- and perhaps pass along something she gave to us.
The other day I made macaroni and cheese the way my Nana taught me. Rather, the way I observed her make it, as she wasn’t the most patient teacher. I remember her rounded shoulders hunched over the 1950s yellow Formica countertop, her frosted mauve nails clicking against the cutting board as she diced the onions. First, she browned the butter until it crackled and gave off a faint, caramel smell. Next, the roux. She poured the whole milk in a steady drizzle to make a béchamel that could coat the back of a spoon (and my chin when she wasn’t looking) ten times over. The steady rhythm of the stirring is imprinted in my memory; so is the smacking of her lips as she tasted along the way.
I told myself that I made it for my daughters to have for dinner later on. That it would be a good accompaniment to the sensible, roasted squash and lentil salad with arugula that I planned to eat instead; I hadn’t touched gluten or dairy in months, trying to slim down before summer. But none of that is true; especially the sensible part. I made it for myself because I had an ache that ran deeper than swimsuit season.
Like most working mothers in America, I had been teetering on the edge of burnout for months. The tell-tale signs of lack of interest in things I used to hold dear, the exhaustion but inability to sleep when the opportunity arose and the swirling, word-vomit-like thoughts that didn’t have a pause button whenever I tried to relax for a moment felt like my new normal. A new normal I wouldn’t survive much longer. I had stopped listening to my body and its needs, pushing past hunger and the need for connection to meet deadlines, juggle daycare schedules and obsessively read the ticker at the bottom of every news program for the first signs of the next disaster.Â
Nana always found her footing in the kitchen; I believed I could do the same. But when I pulled the bubbling, white le Creuset out of the oven, I knew that the cooking was only part of the process that would bring the healing I desperately needed. Instead of denying myself the fullness of the experience by shamefully cramming in mouthfuls over the sink while no one was watching like I would have done before, I put a serving on one of her French Saxon China Company plates with the blue and gold trim. I placed a Magnolia tree branch in a vase on the dirty, kitchen table. And I sat down for lunch, all by myself. Â
And there it was. With this solitary, rebellious act the breath in my body stopped shuddering with anxiety. The warmth that had been missing from the tips of my fingers and toes slowly crept back into my bones. The simple truth was clear as day as I ate in silence. There is nothing admirable about denying oneself something that might bring peace. Â
May your rebellion always bring you back to yourself; even if it’s as small as a plate of macaroni and cheese.
Disclaimer: This recipe is NOT for the faint of heart. Literally. It’s messy, indulgent, and full of dairy products and it just wouldn’t taste the same if scaled back.
Ingredients:
3 tbsp flour
6 tbsp butter
3 cups whole milk
2 medium-sized shallots, diced (Nana used one, medium-sized yellow onion but I like the mellow sweetness of the shallots here)
2 garlic cloves, minced ( you could also use roasted garlic cloves if you’re feeling fancy)
1 tbsp dijon mustard
1 and 1/2 tsp of thyme and 1 bay leaf
3 cups assorted, shredded cheeses (reserve 3/4 cups for the top)
4 oz cream cheese ( Nana used Velveeta but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it and the cream cheese provides the extra creamy smoothness the fake cheese was used for)
1 cup plain or panko breadcrumbs
Paprika or cayenne pepper
Directions:
Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.
In a large pot of salted, boiling water, cook the pasta until just UNDER al dente.
While the pasta is cooking, melt 3 tbsp of butter in a dutch oven over medium to low heat until a toasted brown color ( like the color of an almond skin or a slice of whole-wheat bread).
Add diced shallots and saute until caramel in color before adding garlic ( you may need to turn the heat down to avoid burning the garlic). Whisk in dijon mustard, thyme, and the flour, salt, and pepper to taste (begin with one tsp of each and go from there ). Keep all ingredients moving to avoid burning.
Whisk in the milk until all lumps are gone, and add bay leaf. Simmer for 5–6 minutes until the mixture thickens slightly. Congratulations, you just made a bechamel.
Remove bay leaf, stir in cream cheese and 2 and 1/4 cups of cheese ( this is where it gets tricky, as Nana always scrounged up whatever cheese was leftover in the fridge from the week, pulsed it in the food processor and tossed it in, and I do the same. I’ve used so many variations over the years and they all end up fabulous, but the combo that we’ve loved has always included White American, Gruyere, Cheddar, and Parm).
Pour mixture into a 2 quart, casserole dish and top with the remaining 3/4 cups of cheese.
Melt the remaining 3 tbsp of butter in the skillet and add the cup of breadcrumbs. Toss the breadcrumbs in the melted butter ( you can be creative here and add more herbs or heat if you’d like, roasted garlic, etc) and top the casserole with the breadcrumb mixture. Sprinkle a little paprika
Bake for 30 minutes- or until sauce is bubbling and there’s a lightly browned crust.
Share the leftovers with friends who need to remember the healing power of a dish made simply for pleasure’s sake.Â