A Letter to Macaroni and Cheese

Dear Macaroni and Cheese,

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. You've been there for me longer than the best of my human friends. I trust you more than anyone or anything else. You are the purest part of my life.

As in all relationships, we've had our challenges and bad times. I remember when I was too impatient to finish cleaning a pot, cooked you in still-soapy water, and had to throw you out because I might "ingest chemicals" and "poison myself" and "die." As if you weren't worth it. I remember the many times I gave you too much milk or too much butter, the times I've burned you. I remember when my cousin found a cheesy, dead ladybug snuggled into a bowl with you. I remember when another cousin ate too much of you before we went swimming, and she got the sole public pool in Paris, Illinois shut down while I watched you, regurgitated, floating down the deep end.

Sure, there have been awkward moments, but none dampen my love for you or compare to the good times. My earliest memories are of you, me, and a myriad of cousins taking turns stirring you in Grandma's kitchen. I got dibs on the pink bowl, a few years later it became dibs on the blue bowl. We made ourselves chocolate milk from expired chocolate syrup while Grandma drained the boiling water. I can't remember the last time I drank chocolate milk. I can't remember the last time I saw Grandma carry a gallon of you from the stove to the sink and back. I can't remember the last time I smelled you floating through the walls of my grandparents creaky house.

Their house didn't creak as much back then. My pink bowl and my blue bowl have acquired similar brownish tints from decades of vigorous hand-washing. Grandpa doesn't nap on the couch by the back door anymore, he stays in his assisted lift chair. Grandma doesn't turn off Spongebob to pray the rosary with us anymore, she prays before anyone else is awake. Grandpa doesn't read the paper while we dance to Kidz Bop commercials, he tells stories he can only half-remember in between naps. Grandma doesn't crochet us all blankets anymore, she spends her time trying not to mix up their medications and watching crime shows. Grandpa doesn't recall the last time he took a walk around the farm he was born and raised on.

We don't answer the phone with a friendly "Sullivan residence, who's calling," anymore. Now it's a cautious "Hello" and a quick "don't call here anymore." Calls come from telemarketers and scammers more than friends these days.

They don't have a year's worth of chocolate chip cookies stockpiled in the deep freeze anymore.

A few months ago, a good family friend died unexpectedly, and my grandfather wondered why it had been Dr. Phipps' turn and not his.

The most recent time I saw my grandfather, he cried.

I suppose, dear macaroni, I love you because you remind me of an easier time. A time when all of us were young and naive. A time when my cousins were my best friends, and none of us were worried about college or money or who we were becoming. A time when none of us needed to worry about each other. A time when, abstractly, I knew I would lose the people I cared about the most but didn't understand how much it would hurt to watch them fade.

M&C, you are the easiest route back to my childhood. You are the best reminder of how I felt when Grandma sang lullabies to the pile of descendants on the living room floor. You are a glimpse into a former life where I stood in the kitchen of that farmhouse stirring powdered cheese into a pot of boxed pasta, listening to the luxurious sounds of youth, ignorant to how precious those moments were.

Sincerely,

a thankful kid