I was making macaroni and cheese for Sophie today. Not the homemade kind, the kind that comes in a blue box. I'm domestic but not THAT domestic. As I was finishing up, I remembered from my childhood how my mother would make us the same macaroni and cheese and she would cut up real cheddar cheese and mix it in. Cheddar cheese being what it is, it didn't melt in very well and there were always chunks of cheese in with the macaroni. I loved scooping up a forkful and finding one of the pieces of extra cheese. Its one of those funny childhood memories that litter my brain.
So as I was preparing her not exactly healthy blue box variety, I decided to mix in some cheese. Give it that little touch of motherly love. Knowing she would love it as much as I had and a new memory would be created for this next generation, carrying on the tradition. So I got out the brick, just as my mother did, I sliced off a hunk and methodically cut it into small pieces. Not so small they couldn't be seen or tasted, but small enough to mix in a bit. I threw it in with the butter and milk and stirred and stirred until the powdery stuff was creamy and the perfect texture achieved.
I scooped a small amount of this now precious dish into the cute little Winnie the Pooh bowl and stuck one of her plastic Ikea spoons into the mix. I called her to the table and with my own dish in hand, sat hers down in front of her with a smile and a twinkle in my eye.
She twirled the fork, watching the stringy strands of cheese stretch from fork to bowl. My own mouth watered in anticipation as she eyed up this delicacy. Then, just as she seemed to be about to take a bite, she pushed the plate away and said, with great finality: NO. And just like that, my dreams for this heirloom treat were shattered.
So I pulled her bowl over to my placemat and ate all of that tasty mac and cheese myself. That picky little thing might not like it, but I'm not letting it go to waste.