Macaroni and cheese, everybody?
Today, my husband and I will sit on pitiless bleachers under questionable skies to cheer on our middle- school grandson’s football team.
Afterward, not content to devour the fridge, he will be ready to eat the house.
To spare his family’s abode — and to either celebrate in victory or comfort in loss — I am baking a big, bubbly pan of this special player’s favorite macaroni and cheese. An all-american dish, right?
Well, no. Nobody knows which culinary genius first paired pasta and cheese, but many historians believe an anonymous 14th-century Italian’s cookbook, “Liber de Coquina,” contains the first written mention of pasta sprinkled with grated cheese.
We Americans can thank Thomas Jefferson, who after his European diplomatic service, brought his favorite macaroni and cheese recipe and a pasta maker home. However, Smithsonian Magazine” cites food historian Adrian Miller in crediting Jefferson’s cook, James Hemmings, in wowing Jefferson’s dinner guests.
When my football player is anticipating a half-a-panful helping of mac ’n’ cheese (seconds, please?), he really isn’t interested in our country’s forefathers. He simply wants to fill up that huge, empty space in his middle. He also does not want Grandma to change the recipe. Two are acceptable: one handed down by my mother, and an Internet one I discovered last year,
Unlike many 1960s cooks, Mom did not stir up the 19-cents-a-box food made popular during the Depression. Instead of macaroni, Mom cooked spaghetti, then added whatever variety of cheese had escaped five-kids-inthe-house foraging. Her version was heavy on margarine—not only cheaper than cheese, but even my starving siblings and I drew the line at butter as a snack.
Her recipe proved invaluable during my husband’s medical school years. Hubby shrugged off the spaghetti factor, realizing my family always did things differently.
Fixed in my mind is one memorable supper. Hubby had lost sleep for several days. After saying grace, I looked up to see him facedown in a plateful of our spaghetti and cheese entrée.
Fast-forward several decades. When Hubby invited students over for a cookout, I feared they might find my spaghetti fetish — and me — weird. Would risotto, ravioli, or gnocchi pasta boost my sophistication ratings? Perhaps … but the cost of my group side dish would skyrocket.
Cheap won. For the first time, I prepared mac ’n’ cheese. It proved a hit, not only with students, but later, with my grandson.
Not everyone is sufficiently broad-minded to welcome two versions, especially if the cook not only messes with the variety of pasta, but the cheese. American and cheddar enthusiasts rarely compromise. Diners with discerning palates may require brie, Gruyere, smoked Gouda, or goat cheese.
Others, if stranded on a desert island, would refuse the creamy, stove-top version. In their minds, mac ’n’ cheese is not real food without an oven-baked crust. Even sprinkling bread crumbs on top causes controversy.
Not to mention Paula Deen’s variation, in which she wraps macaroni and cheese in bacon, breads it, then flash-fries it.
Entries in a recent San Francisco macaroni and cheese contest probably did not resemble Paula’s version. But the additives those cooks — er, chefs — employed might raise our Midwestern eyebrows: nutmeg, mustard, and even cinnamon and sugar. Vegetables often took center stage: mushrooms, tomatoes, broccoli, brussels sprouts and that darling of the green veggie world, kale.
Some even added fruit, such as figs.
The judges, including “Smithsonian Magazine” writer and cheese merchant Gordon Edgar, took a more traditional path. They awarded first place to macaroni and cheese featuring aged Vermont cheddar.
The cultured audience, however, chose a different entry — and were shocked to silence when the winner revealed his main ingredient. Velveeta.
Who would have thought that crowd could agree on this dish that has endured and will endure, even in its many variations? When my football-playing grandson needs comfort or celebration food, mac ’n’ cheese will be there for him.
Not surprisingly, Americans’ political views are even more diverse than our versions of macaroni and cheese. But acknowledging our differences, can we not lean on the basic recipe, our cause for comfort and celebration for almost two and a half centuries?
I want that to be there for my football player, too.