Lawless Mac

You don't need rhyme or reason to commit Mac n' Treason

My father projects as predominantly left-brained: analytical, methodical, S.T.E.M. oriented - the list goes on. He graduated from Bentley in the early 80’s, will attest to an IQ of 140, wrote a consumer instruction manual on how to correctly purchase a car, and leans about 1 centimeter left of center politically which I attribute to his upbringing in Worcester, Massachusetts.

Here he is, in all his glory, carving this past year's gravy bird.

Growing up I had theories he was a robot.

Some pumped into my head at a young age by my mother, post-divorce-pocalypse and other’s crafted by myself and my right-brained thinking. More recently I’ve concluded that we’re just wired different - my mental map looks like more of an avant garde finger painting next to his internal circuit board.

Despite a lack of congruency in mechanics, Dave Hanley is one of my absolute best friends, greatest mentors, and biggest supporters. Like most parent-child relationships, however, not living with him has substantially improved my confidence in those statements.

The cabinets on Newton Ave North are spotless. Constructed out of a beached white hardwood, paneling the broad-spanning naturally lit stage, the kitchen is chromed with logic, efficiency, and elegance.

Each item has geographic coordinates. Spices are organized in a gradient of heat, color, flavor, and utility. There are always fresh vegetables in every hue of white light, and cuts of meat from D'errico's Market, a local delicatessen that Dave swears by.

Aside from having an elitist gentrified minimart at my fingertips, something was always missing. The easy, unhealthy, on-the go junk-food, every lazy, angsty teenager craves. I didn’t give a shit that I could make gourmet horderves when I got home from school at 3:30, I wanted dive into the couch and shove my face into a heaping bowl of Mac and Cheese.

A raw example of mac n' angst, circa 2016.

Undoubtedly I had the resources and the wherewithal to go to Price Chopper, pick up some $0.99 boxed-Annie’s and establish a nuclear bunker of reserve crap food, but I suppose I was either too lazy or too curious to not try and create my own concoction with what stood so tight and tall in the pantry right in front of me

I’d boil pasta on the gas stove - penne to be exact - 8 minutes to watch the ballet of convection currents stand alone and 8 minutes to observe marriage of the bubbles soften and tango out and around the noodles. Just like my father, this process is acute and dutifully unwavering.

The adjacent burner however, what somewhat of a different world. A place of exploration and craftsmanship. Mind you, not because I was a chef by any standards, but more of an artist with a mission who only had access to the tools provided for me within a 10 foot radius.

“A-ha! A challenge! Set the burner low under a cast-iron skillet. 2% Milk? No - half- and- half. No! Heavy cream! No that’s too heavy - what about… all three!” Sounds like something along the lines of my undeveloped thought process.

Filled to roughly the bottom quarter of the skillet, I’d then add approximately a half-cup of King Arthur, all-purpose multi-grain flour, roughly 2 tablespoons of butter - whatever was out on the counter - and the initial spices.

Consistently, I’ve used about a tablespoon of garlic salt, ground black pepper, table salt, oregano, dried basil, but mostly whatever smelled nice or that had deep pigmented colors. I’m mostly sure spices are not preliminary ingredients, but I like the way they move with the thick simmering milk - psychedelic patterns, growing and shrinking, spinning and bouncing, separating and grouping - if watched closely enough you can be pulled from reality into an inter-dimensional silken cosmos made not from any God or rapid expansion light and time but from your own hands.

Upon prefect collusion of the mixture at which point my panned-multiverse starts to look more uniform and grainy, it’s time for the cheese - which has proven consistently, well less consistent, than the spice amalgamation. The golden rule that always holds true, however, is use as much cheese as you possibly can with only making a dent in the overall supply rather than to a specific cheese - that way my Dad in this instance, or whoever’s refrigerator rading, will only suffer minor injuries rather than mass casualties. I learned that through getting yelled at around 6:30 week nights and Dave couldn’t enjoy Jack Daniels, cheese and crackers, because his jackass daughter used the entire block of cheddar for a second lunch.

While the nature of the dish doesn’t entail specificities, I recommend lots of ground Sharp Cheddar - not the orange kind, sliced American, Pecorino Romano, Brie, Smoked Gouda, Pub Cheese, Cream Cheese, Sour Cream, and hey you’re really feeling up to it - thousand island dressing. Slowly add whatever your choices are to the milky-way base, while stirring and you should end up with an extremely thick and creamy cheese sauce.

I’d add in the pasta and in a quick-sand like fashion watched it be consumed into the yellow sea, making it look all dressed up and pretty, let it cool a bit, add a layer of Panko bread crumbs, and top it all off with any remaining grated cheese scraps you have.