Different coasts, different mac and cheese
The truffle mac and cheese that I made for my family’s Thanksgiving dinner. Photo: Jordan Muto.
It was a Thursday afternoon in Northern California in late July. My mom arrived home early from work and decided to cook dinner, a rare occasion for our family, since she worked full-time. We headed out to Burlingame Avenue to do some errands and stopped at Mollie Stones, the grocery store off the avenue, to pick up ingredients for dinner.
As we drove home along El Camino Real, my mom asked me, “Would you ever want to move to New York?” I thought it was a hypothetical situation, so I answered, “Sure, it would be fun.” The majority of our family lived in New York and we would visit about four times a year, sometimes more. On our cross-country trips, I often wondered what life would be like there.
We got home, unpacked the car and my mom started making dinner. Tonight we were having homemade mac and cheese, pretty much the only thing she could make. She learned the recipe, which consisted of elbow pasta, milk, butter and Velveeta cheese in her high school Home Economics class. The best was when she burned the top and the noodles were crispy.
My mom’s recipe, written down by my babysitter in San Francisco. My mom originally had the recipe on an index card. Photo: Jordan Muto.
My dad returned from work on the early side that night. It was a little weird for him to be home before 7 p.m., but I didn’t give it much thought. Rarely did we eat dinner as a family when it was still light out, so I was just enjoying the welcome change of pace.
We were just starting to eat when my dad casually said, “We are moving to New York.” I immediately lost my appetite.
There was no choice. There was nothing to consider. It was happening. The questions from my brother and I started flowing.
What are you talking about? When is this happening? Why?
We would move the following July. My brother and I would complete the school year in San Francisco and during that time we would find a new home. But there was a catch to all of this: We couldn’t immediately tell anyone the news, so for about three months I was expected to accept it and keep to myself.
This was a lot to comprehend for a 12-year-old. I got up from the table, walked out the door and ran away. Much to my dismay, my mom followed me and eventually I returned home. For my 10-year old-brother, the initial reality didn’t exactly set in, so he told my parents, “I’m in.”
The next days and even months were filled with tears and questions. In August we looked at neighborhoods in both New York and Connecticut and the whole thing became real. My brother quickly turned on my parents and I was forced into being supportive, regardless of how angry I was. I plotted how I could stay back, asking family friends, once the news came out, if I could live with them. They all said yes, but my parents weren’t leaving me behind.
The following year was spent house hunting and enjoying the last of our California lifestyle. My dad was bi-coastal. My mom stopped making mac and cheese. For a while, I wouldn’t even eat it at restaurants.
Before I knew it, June 30th, the date of our move, had arrived.
That summer was rough. My mom left her job to help us get settled, so just about every day was spent with my brother, my mom and occasionally my extended family — like my grandparents who lived 10 minutes away.
For two kids, it’s an interesting experience being in a new place and not knowing anyone. It’s lonely and it’s scary. There are of days of anxiously waiting and hoping things get better. You get to know your family really well, very quickly.
On the East Coast, life was different. We were no longer out on our own in California, traveling back to New York to see family. Instead, people came to us. Our house quickly became the place where both my mom and dad’s family gather together for Thanksgiving, along with our old neighbors from California.
My truffle mac and cheese before it went into the oven on Thanksgiving. Photo: Jordan Muto.
This past Thanksgiving, we made mac and cheese in our Connecticut house for the first time. My grandpa was dying in the hospital, and we needed a last-minute dish to add to the feast because my family was spending all their time in the hospital with him. I decided that at 22 it was probably time to start cooking, and someone suggested that I make truffle mac and cheese. I was skeptical at first, but decided it was worth a shot. It was a hit. We are planning on making it part of the tradition.
It will be 10 years, this summer, since we moved. A lot has changed, including the mac and cheese recipe.
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