From a Big Sur writing retreat part V

• One bag of macaroni shells
• A stick of butter
• A block of orange (radioactive orange) cheese

THESE are the things that subdued my anger, my sense of indignation at the world, and put an end to my whining to this very day. These three things my mom combined when it came time to make a home-cooked meal. On these nights, when there wasn’t a Hungry Man in the oven, I felt better. She knew it would fix things.

Boil the shells. Grate the neon orange cheese. Why does my brother get to go to Ireland? He got arrested and I got better grades in school? But then I’d pop a tuft of that grated cheese into my mouth and forget about her answer. Something about BECAUSE I was good she didn’t have to worry about rewarding me. My brother needed bribes.

Once the shells boiled tender and soft, mom drained them. She’d dump them into a glass baking dish and drop the stick of butter on that steaming pile of macaroni shells. Lastly she’d stir until it all melted. Why are you buying my brother a second vehicle? You haven’t even bought me one, I’d cry. The smell of grated cheese, sprinkled over the butter-drenched shells, muted the whining until my tone turned conversational in nature. YOU can take care of yourself, she’d say.

After ten or fifteen minutes the cheese would turn crusty around the outer edges of the baking dish. I think you like him better than me, I would say.  No, I love you both DIFFERENTLY, she’d reply. Then she’d serve up the baked macaroni and cheese and I’d forget about my jealousy for a bit. We’d douse it in Heinz Ketchup.

I never knew my mom wasn’t a very good cook, not until I moved into my own apartment. But on those macaroni and cheese nights, she was the BEST cook.