Mac and Cheese....we all love it! Its a simple dish that reminds us of home, that takes us back to our roots as children, a dish best summed up with the words, melty, cheesy, and just plain awesome. Lately, Macaroni and cheese has been on my mind, and I'm not talking about that watered down blue box stuff, I'm talking about real, made-from-scratch, homestyle cooking that has remained one of America's favorite childhood meals. I definitely got the blues, and even more so after a trip to New York City in the summer of 2010 where I got to sample one of the very best macaroni dishes I've ever tasted.
Apparently my mother and sister, who pretty much watch the Food Network day and night consecutively, had seen a feature story about a place called The MacBar located in the SOHO district of NYC. During my trip, they phoned me all the way from San Diego to inform me about this place, and I'm certainly glad they did. Me and my Dad, who was with me at the time of my trip, walked endlessly looking for this restaurant. We were expecting a place packed with hungry customers when we finally found it. Turned out, however, it was nothing more than a hole in the wall business, not much bigger than the size of my dorm room. I was a bit skeptical, everyone raved about this place and it was even featured on Food Network; there had to be a crowd for this place to be awesome, right? Boy was I wrong. I ordered a four cheese macaroni dish, and it was hands down one of the most memorable things I had in New York. This place was extremely unique, and took traditional macaroni and cheese to a whole new level, and this got me thinking, "Why can't we have something this fantastic back home?"
The only macaroni I ever eat nowadays comes from that famous blue box with the "Cheesasaurus", as they call him, and it really is great and all, I enjoy eating it and it has a decent taste. However, it is nowhere near the intesity of flavor I experienced on my trip. That stuff is generic and fast, I wanted something with a little more character, boldness, and fresh ingredients, just like what I had at the macbar. Eventually I began searching recipes for homemade mac and cheese. What I found only made my mouth water and crave for a taste of what I was reading. There were recipes for gourmet mac and cheese, southern mac and cheese, traditional Italian mac and cheese, homestyle mac and cheese, and countless of original and improvised recipes that all sounded extremely delicious. I decided to attempt one of these recipes, just for old times sake. If I couldn't have gourmet west coast mac and cheese that was just as delicious as New York mac and cheese, then I was going to make my own.
The recipe I discovered actually incorported bacon bits, dijon mustard, and parmesian breadcrumbs, which I had never heard of before. But it sounded so good, I just had to try it. I bought the ingredients, and began to mix them together in my mothers kitchen, just like it said in the recipe's instructions, step by step. Everything smelled so wonderfull; the sharp cheddar, the mustard, the parmesian, the crackling bacon cooking over the stove, it all came together quite harmoniously. I cooked the elbow macaroni in boiling water and strained it, placed it into a ceramic pot and mixed in the milk, butter, and cheese sauce (which included the mustard as well, adding small hint of spicyness). Next came the breadcrumb and parmesian for the crispy layer on top. All that was left was to pop it in the oven at 350 degrees fareinheit and waited about 20 minutes until the top was nice and brown. As I pulled out the dish, the aroma rushed out and hit me all at once, and to be honest it was a far better aroma than I was expecting (considering I'm no expert in cooking). The cheese bubbled around the edges and I was ready to dig in. The one thing I had been craving for the longest time was just a spoonfull away, but not before I topped it off with the finally ingredient: freshly crumbled bacon bits. Finally the moment of truth, I indulged. It didn't quite have the flavor of the macbar macaroni and cheese I had hoped for, but it was delicious in its own way, and that was kind of the fun in making my own. It was still homecooked, and had that bold flavor I wanted in a macaroni and cheese dish, and in that way I succeeded. No more of that crappy blue box stuff for me, whenever I get the blues for real mac and cheese, I know now that I don't have to fly 3,000 miles away to get it. All I need is a little imagination, fairly decent cooking skills, and an appetite for some of the best macaroni and cheese I can dish up. As the Italians would say, "Bon Appetite".
Friday, February 18, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Journey
It's about 10:45 and class is about to be let out. All the students wait in anticipation as Prof. Michael Clark ends his lecture on creative non-fiction writing, and although I find it a very interesting subject, lunch is consuming my mind, and has been taking up a great deal of thinking space since the beginning of class. My body craves for nourishment, my mind begins to wander as I hallucinate a big juicy burger in the distance, with cheese melting from its sides. I reach out and try to take it, but my hand simply goes right through, as though I'm watching a 3D film in a movie theater. For the most part, I detest 3D films and how they're being reduced to nothing but crowd pleasing spectacles for people with short attention spans, but for this burger I was making an exception. The downside to this exception was that the burger was just as unreal and disappointing as one of those 3D excuses for a 15 dollar movie ticket. As I was just about to pass out of my mind, I hear the rustling movement of an anxious and restless group of students throughout the classroom. Everyone has begun to gather their things. This was my cue to dash out of there and make my way to the lunch line as quickly as possible.
At this point I'm not thinking straight. The only thing that's on my mind is lunch, and making it to my dorm room just in time to finish some unfinished homework, as is my daily Tuesday and Thursday routine. I see caf lane ahead of me; a rather busy part of campus around this hour, and a great multitude of students are rushing through it, like a heavy river current. At this point I can't even see the other side of the path way, which is my preferred destination if I ever plan on making it to the caf (short for cafeteria: its a PLNU thing) before everyone else does. I take a deep breath and attempt to plunge through the human Nile river, but the same thing happens to me every time I step out of writing class; I trip off a hanging ledge on the curb created by a conveniently placed storm drain. I should already know it is there by now, but I never seem to remember, especially at a desperate time like this. I shrug off the frustration and attempt the perilous feat once more. Bodies crash into me, apologies come flying from all directions, and I'm almost there. My life flashed before my eyes, but then it flashed back to a tasty chicken Cesar wrap (A routine lunch for me on this particular day of the week, but it never fails to satisfy). Up the stairs I climb, as if trekking to the peak of mount Everest. As I'm reaching the top of the stairs, and gasping for breathe (because there's less oxygen up here, or something, right?) I spot the usual freshman line spanning at least a mile and a half outside the cafeteria door. I make my way to the entrance where the smart people wait in the significantly shorter line for a "to-go" lunch (I was pretty mad when I found out that this new method of lunch distribution existed last semester...and I never knew).
I always dread coming face-to-face with the "to-go" lunch lady, who never seems to be in a pleasant mood. But hey, lunch is lunch, and I wanted it, no matter how big an attitude I had to go up against with this lady. I snag a chicken wrap, an apple, and a water, and realized this was only the first half of my journey. I still had to cross campus in order to get to my dorm room, which in retrospect always feels like walking to another country. I began my long walk and hoped not to run into anyone I knew, I just wanted to reach my destination as soon as possible. I made it through caf lane ok without being spotted, and eventually reached "the stairs". Everytime I have to climb down these stairs I think of Gollum and the Hobbits from The Lord of The Rings, and the stairway that led all the way the mouth of the cave which housed Shelob, a spider approximately the size of my Dad's Ford F-250. I'm almost reaching my destination, I don't want to have to deal with a giant spider (or something like it...metaphorical or literal) getting in my way. Who knows, there are a lot of trees going down this stairpath, I once ran into an full grown opossum, I wouldn't be surprised if a chupacabras popped out of nowhere in front of me. Luckily I crossed the treacherous "stairs of doom" unharmed. A few more days of sailing across a sea of black pavement, and dodging a couple of potentially life threatening student driven vehicular transports traveling at warp speed, I make it to my room, and enjoy a well deserved feast of less than epic proportion. I was happy. That's all I needed to make it through the rest of my day. My journey taught me at least one thing, or rather it put me into the perspective of one of literatures most well-known heroes, Odysseus. I conquered all the perils I faced as I made my way to the mother land, I didn't allow any sirens to stand in my way, to prevent me from reaching my goal, and I did it all with the tenacity of a broke and passionate (or should I change that phrasing to forcefully imaginative and overdramatic?) college student.
At this point I'm not thinking straight. The only thing that's on my mind is lunch, and making it to my dorm room just in time to finish some unfinished homework, as is my daily Tuesday and Thursday routine. I see caf lane ahead of me; a rather busy part of campus around this hour, and a great multitude of students are rushing through it, like a heavy river current. At this point I can't even see the other side of the path way, which is my preferred destination if I ever plan on making it to the caf (short for cafeteria: its a PLNU thing) before everyone else does. I take a deep breath and attempt to plunge through the human Nile river, but the same thing happens to me every time I step out of writing class; I trip off a hanging ledge on the curb created by a conveniently placed storm drain. I should already know it is there by now, but I never seem to remember, especially at a desperate time like this. I shrug off the frustration and attempt the perilous feat once more. Bodies crash into me, apologies come flying from all directions, and I'm almost there. My life flashed before my eyes, but then it flashed back to a tasty chicken Cesar wrap (A routine lunch for me on this particular day of the week, but it never fails to satisfy). Up the stairs I climb, as if trekking to the peak of mount Everest. As I'm reaching the top of the stairs, and gasping for breathe (because there's less oxygen up here, or something, right?) I spot the usual freshman line spanning at least a mile and a half outside the cafeteria door. I make my way to the entrance where the smart people wait in the significantly shorter line for a "to-go" lunch (I was pretty mad when I found out that this new method of lunch distribution existed last semester...and I never knew).
I always dread coming face-to-face with the "to-go" lunch lady, who never seems to be in a pleasant mood. But hey, lunch is lunch, and I wanted it, no matter how big an attitude I had to go up against with this lady. I snag a chicken wrap, an apple, and a water, and realized this was only the first half of my journey. I still had to cross campus in order to get to my dorm room, which in retrospect always feels like walking to another country. I began my long walk and hoped not to run into anyone I knew, I just wanted to reach my destination as soon as possible. I made it through caf lane ok without being spotted, and eventually reached "the stairs". Everytime I have to climb down these stairs I think of Gollum and the Hobbits from The Lord of The Rings, and the stairway that led all the way the mouth of the cave which housed Shelob, a spider approximately the size of my Dad's Ford F-250. I'm almost reaching my destination, I don't want to have to deal with a giant spider (or something like it...metaphorical or literal) getting in my way. Who knows, there are a lot of trees going down this stairpath, I once ran into an full grown opossum, I wouldn't be surprised if a chupacabras popped out of nowhere in front of me. Luckily I crossed the treacherous "stairs of doom" unharmed. A few more days of sailing across a sea of black pavement, and dodging a couple of potentially life threatening student driven vehicular transports traveling at warp speed, I make it to my room, and enjoy a well deserved feast of less than epic proportion. I was happy. That's all I needed to make it through the rest of my day. My journey taught me at least one thing, or rather it put me into the perspective of one of literatures most well-known heroes, Odysseus. I conquered all the perils I faced as I made my way to the mother land, I didn't allow any sirens to stand in my way, to prevent me from reaching my goal, and I did it all with the tenacity of a broke and passionate (or should I change that phrasing to forcefully imaginative and overdramatic?) college student.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Go West, Young Man, Go West
Classes are done for the day, temperature is scorching well over 110, and I'm wearing a blue hollister jacket. There is a reason for the jacket. It's there to keep me from turning into an ice cube while being lectured about mixers, signal paths, and microphones inside my studio classroom (sound production is the coolest subject to learn about!). But now that I've stepped outside, this jacket is preventing me from getting potential 2nd degree sunburns on any patch of skin that would otherwise be exposed. This is Pheonix, AZ, summer 2009, and its finally started to feel close to hell.
My buddy Cole and I head on over to his apartment right after buying ourselves a drive through lunch. The sun isn't showing any mercy in the afternoon time, and it only seems to be getting hotter. Luckily, we have a Pheonix resident's best friend: air conditioning. We crank it past the ideal temperature for any Alaskan Eskimo and it occurs to me that this jacket isn't coming off anytime soon. A couple of juicy burgers settling in our stomachs and we begin our usual routine of moping around, talking about the girlfriends we wished we had, and of course Youtube videos (which never seemed to fail us).
Nightime comes around and its finally safe to go out for a drive, with the heat of the day somewhat tamed and giving us a chance to enjoy a little outdoor time. We drive on over to Arizona State University in Cole's Jeep Rubicon with the music blasting (Cole had a thing for Rage Against the Machine). Going down the main college strip, we're able to catch a feel for the nightlife on this particular night. A drunk girl here, a douche bag there, a couple of university students enjoying a cup of frozen yogurt, a fight between a couple outside a dance club, some hobo-looking young people playing indie music in front of a coffee shop, and of course a dozen of Arizona's finest, keeping the peace in the midst of the usual chaos. We decide to keep driving and park the Jeep next to an ASU parking structure. With our skateboard and longboard in hand, we venture to the top floor of the structure and cruise down each emptied floor until we reach the bottom. We go for several more rounds before getting thrown out by security (they weren't very happy).
In a spare of the moment attempt to release our last bits of energy, we decide to hike up "A" mountain, as we called it. It was basically a stand-alone mountain located right next to the university with a giant "A" slapped onto its side that could be seen from miles away. A trail led to the very top, so we went for it. We were huffing and puffing by the time we reached the peak, but as we arrived, I knew it was worth the climb. Looking down on Pheonix, with its glowing city lights reflecting off the night sky, the warm, dry desert air hitting the sweat on our foreheads, there was a deep sense of calm on top of this mountain, as opposed to the frantic and nervous college setting we had passed through earlier. As I sat on the rocks, I reflected on my time in the desert. My gaze turned to the west, and I realized that I longed for the ocean once again. In moments such as these, I was constantly being reminded that I was still a SoCal boy.
My buddy Cole and I head on over to his apartment right after buying ourselves a drive through lunch. The sun isn't showing any mercy in the afternoon time, and it only seems to be getting hotter. Luckily, we have a Pheonix resident's best friend: air conditioning. We crank it past the ideal temperature for any Alaskan Eskimo and it occurs to me that this jacket isn't coming off anytime soon. A couple of juicy burgers settling in our stomachs and we begin our usual routine of moping around, talking about the girlfriends we wished we had, and of course Youtube videos (which never seemed to fail us).
Nightime comes around and its finally safe to go out for a drive, with the heat of the day somewhat tamed and giving us a chance to enjoy a little outdoor time. We drive on over to Arizona State University in Cole's Jeep Rubicon with the music blasting (Cole had a thing for Rage Against the Machine). Going down the main college strip, we're able to catch a feel for the nightlife on this particular night. A drunk girl here, a douche bag there, a couple of university students enjoying a cup of frozen yogurt, a fight between a couple outside a dance club, some hobo-looking young people playing indie music in front of a coffee shop, and of course a dozen of Arizona's finest, keeping the peace in the midst of the usual chaos. We decide to keep driving and park the Jeep next to an ASU parking structure. With our skateboard and longboard in hand, we venture to the top floor of the structure and cruise down each emptied floor until we reach the bottom. We go for several more rounds before getting thrown out by security (they weren't very happy).
In a spare of the moment attempt to release our last bits of energy, we decide to hike up "A" mountain, as we called it. It was basically a stand-alone mountain located right next to the university with a giant "A" slapped onto its side that could be seen from miles away. A trail led to the very top, so we went for it. We were huffing and puffing by the time we reached the peak, but as we arrived, I knew it was worth the climb. Looking down on Pheonix, with its glowing city lights reflecting off the night sky, the warm, dry desert air hitting the sweat on our foreheads, there was a deep sense of calm on top of this mountain, as opposed to the frantic and nervous college setting we had passed through earlier. As I sat on the rocks, I reflected on my time in the desert. My gaze turned to the west, and I realized that I longed for the ocean once again. In moments such as these, I was constantly being reminded that I was still a SoCal boy.
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