The mixed memories evoked by Velveeta
I would guess, without the receipts to double-check, that I grew up lower middle class. We were clothed and dressed, but there was no money for extras, which meant no family vacations and our cars were sometimes held together with wire and duct tape.
Ah, but every scar has a story. My brother once borrowed my beloved car (which was the color of butterscotch pudding), and when he brought it back, the hood was wired shut with a hanger. How did that happen, I asked? It just flew up! he said. He could have been killed, he said, but he wasn’t!
I had no reason to doubt him. In fact, if he’d told me a pterodactyl had flown over the horizon and snatched the hood off the car, I would have believed him. Being lower middle class, you expect expensive disasters you don’t have the money to fix.
Other friends had it far worse. I know because I would take groceries to them with my church group, white bread, peanut butter, pasta (which we called spaghetti because all pasta was spaghetti). Our own diet was about what you would expect. Chef Boyardee. Tuna fish out of a can. Tang. Velveeta. People on television ate far better but, unlike those people to whom I delivered groceries, I never went to bed hungry.
The problem with telling stories like these is that events don’t always occur in easily defined chapter form, but the second big-girl paycheck I received, I went to Foodtown, waltzed past the yellow Velveeta boxes and headed to the cheese aisle. I felt fancy.
I have since come to understand that people who grew up in better economic circumstances also ate Velveeta, but to me, it always tasted like defeat. After my first taste of fancy cheese (I think it was Swiss), I never looked back, but once you’ve dined on Velveeta — because you had to, not because you were slumming or the queso called for it — you enter a chummy club of children whose home-cut hair styles and home-sewn clothes mark them forever, and not always in a bad way.
Years later, in a long conversation over good food, my friends Catherine, Shawn and I discovered that none of us were slumming as we grew up on Velveeta, and so, laughing ourselves silly, we formed a supper club and called ourselves The Velveeta — well, the rest of that club’s name included a bad word that rhymes with witches. It is not a word any of us use much, but it fit.
We would gather at one another’s homes and try to outdo each other with recipes, but Catherine, who worked in state government and knew everybody, once owned a restaurant. Shawn, a nationally known activist and one of the kindest people I’ll ever know, was a committed cook who acquired a Facebook following when she brought out her pans. I came to understand that I was there for comedic relief. Our dinners often went into the wee hours with nary a glass of Tang in sight. I do not often laugh so hard my head hurts, but I did with them. We grew up Velveeta, and that was enough.
A few weeks ago, I got word that Shawn had died unexpectantly in her home, and even though I realize we all take our leave eventually, her death hit hard. She was vibrant, funny and a friend to everyone. We filled up a West Hartford restaurant to begin our long goodbye, which is ongoing.
I am not convinced that everything happens for a reason, but earlier this month, my New York Times included a recipe for macaroni and cheese that included — you guessed it — Velveeta. I mostly read the Times recipes to discover all the ingredients I wouldn’t even know how to ask for at the Big Y. Velveeta was not a word I expected to see. I couldn’t wait to tell Catherine about the recipe, but she’d already seen it.
I clutched the recipe and went to my local grocery store, where it took me a while to find the Velveeta. I thought how funny my younger self would have found my confusion. But when I found it, I whooped so loud a woman pushing her cart past stopped a moment, thought better about engaging and moved on. It’s just as well. I wouldn’t have known where to start to explain my excitement.
That’s how I found myself in my kitchen one cold, sunny afternoon with my fancy cheeses and Velveeta on the counter. I chopped and diced, and all my girlhood memories gathered in the kitchen to cheer me on, as did Shawn. (At one point, my husband passed through and suggested I add lobster, but that seemed disrespectful, and not to the lobster.)
And the end product? It was melt-in-your-mouth creamy. I divided it in half and shared it with two different groups over Thanksgiving. I’ll make it again. If you want to try it, here’s the recipe: https://cooking.nytimes. com/recipes/1022733-creamybaked-macaroni-and-cheese. May all your happiest childhood memories and dear friends who pass before you gather as you stir.