Vegetables at the Meat and Three
My husband
Barry says mac and cheese is his favorite vegetable.
“What part
grows in the ground? Do you harvest the macaroni or the cheese?” I ask,
laughing at his remark.
He points
to the menu he holds. Our favorite meat-and-three restaurant in our little
mountain town lists macaroni and cheese under the green beans and sliced
tomatoes, right along with mashed potatoes.
I like macaroni
and cheese, but it must be real cheese. Not a microwave dish or plastic-packaged
cheese sauce thrown on top of noodles. Neither do I like to order cheese grits
and have my plate served with a spoonful of grits and a slice of Velveeta lying
across the top. Some things you just don’t try to shortcut.
My recipe
for macaroni and cheese elicits raves from my dinner guests. I use three
different kinds of cheese. In the oven, the sharp cheddar on top melts into a golden
lava flow and crisps at the edges. Beneath that sunny cover a creamy sauce,
seasoned perfectly with salt and pepper, with a jar of pimento mixed in to give
color and sweet pepper flavor, awaits the diner’s taste buds. Pimento and
cheese go together like peanut butter and jelly and is a favorite combination
in our family. I’m not bragging, but I’ve been told I make the best pimento
cheese sandwiches. I use sharp cheese and just enough mayo. I am heavy-handed
with the pimento. Barry said he thought macaroni and cheese couldn’t get any
better until he ate it with chopped pimento.
Still, I
think my mother made the best. She simply prepared a cream sauce from scratch,
stirred in grated cheese until it melted, and turned the sauce a pale yellow.
She poured it over cooked elbows and layered the top with more freshly grated
hoop cheese she bought at Hancock’s grocery.
I remember Mr. Hancock, wearing his blood-spattered
white smock, used a butcher knife to cut a wedge from the great round that lay
sweating on his meat counter. He ripped off a sheet of white butcher paper from
a nearby roll and wrapped, without a wrinkle, the pock-marked chunk of cheddar.
Riding home
in the Nash, sitting next to my sister, the pungent smell reeking through the
brown bag tempted me to open the white paper and sneak a bite. Just like the
tiny mice that wintered in our farmhouse, I was drawn to the smell of what
Daddy called rat cheese. Many evenings before going to bed, he cut a small
piece off the wedge and baited a mouse trap.
The next
morning he held up the spring-coiled death instrument and laughed. “It never
fails,” he’d say, as he carried the corpses outside for the cats. I felt sorry for those mice. They had been
tempted by the “rat cheese” just as I was, and I’m sure, even if they had known
it might be their last meal, they had to take a bite.
When we
arrived home from the store, Mother would put away the groceries, but she left
the cheese on the kitchen counter. The flavor peaked at room temperature she
told me. When she wasn’t looking I nibbled on the triangled hunk, breaking off
one small piece at a time. I wished I could eat the whole thing. But I knew
Mother had to make that hunk of cheese feed our big family.
Later, when
she took the bubbling dish of macaroni and cheese from the oven, the aroma
wafted throughout our house. My four teenage brothers, my sister, and I needed
no coaxing to come to dinner. If it had been allowed, I’d have made my meal on that
one dish, filling my plate over and over with the soft noodles.
I was not a
big fan of greens or rutabagas, or many other things from the garden that
Mother put on the table every day, so, like Barry, when I was a kid macaroni
and cheese was my favorite vegetable, too.
First published on this site many years ago.
What is your favorite vegetable?
