A bowl of Macaroni and cheese and Grandma

One of my first memories is standing in my grandma's kitchen. Most of the memory isn't clear. A smile from my mom. A feeling of love and warmth. My grandma's laugh. The sound of a conversation I'm too young to follow. Mostly I remember how special I feel. The rest of the grandkids my brother, my cousins are still playing outside. I'm the only one in the kitchen just me, nobody else.

This moment in the kitchen is the only memory I will have of being there, Though I'm told these visits to my grandma’s kitchen happened every time I was at her house before I turned three years old. At this point you might be curious as to why these visits happened. Well, the reason is simple... I was there because my grandma was the best and she knew... I LOVED MACARONI AND CHEESE

I don't remember everything about that kitchen. A three-inch rise where the living room floor was taller than the kitchen floor. The color of the tiles that separated the two floors. A vague impression of the dark wood cabinets that stretched in a L shape from where I was standing. A cloudy image of a white Formica countertop.

All of these details are more of a sense rather than a distinct focused picture. The bowl of macaroni in my hands, though. I remember that bowl clear as a bell. The shape of the noodles. The color of the cheese. The taste of pure heaven. That is permanently etched inside my memory in high definition.

Growing up one of my mom's, actually strike that. My mom's favorite go to story about her mom was the tale of those bowls of macaroni and cheese. Mom loved to go on for hours about how much grandma loved how much I loved macaroni and cheese. Whether it was on the menu for dinner or not grandma always had a bowl of macaroni and cheese for her youngest daughter's, youngest son.

And why shouldn't macaroni and cheese have been one of my earliest memories? Why shouldn't it have been the first favorite food I ever had? Macaroni and Cheese is an American Icon. The wonderful combination of cheese and noodles first became popular in 1937 when the Kraft foods company first produced a boxed version. The country was grappling with the Great Depression and the boxed dish from Kraft was cheap and easy to cook. That’s right! Macaroni and cheese helped families survive the Great Depression keeping many from starving when they could afford little else.

Some form of macaroni and cheese has existed in the world since the 14th century. There are different stories of exactly how but generally Thomas Jefferson is credited with bringing the version of macaroni and cheese we know today to America in the early 19th century. Interestingly or not, you can be the judge, there is an unsettled debate as to whether it was someone with Thomas who first brought the recipe or Thomas himself. And the debate doesn't end there either, some say Thomas had his own pasta machine and after his wife died, he made the noodles himself topping them with parmesan cheese and later with cheddar. While some say his daughter Mary Thomas told the recipe to their enslaved cook James Hemming who actually made the dish. Others believe it was first served to Thomas when he was president by the French Chef Honore Julien who served as White House Chef from 1801-1809.

From backyard barbeques to family dinners to meals eaten alone macaroni and cheese is welcome at all of them. Whether it's a side dish or a whole meal, you can never go wrong with macaroni and cheese. You can add anything to it hamburger, who doesn't love cheeseburger macaroni. Tuna, with or without peas who hasn't grown up eating that and don't get me started on chili mac we'll be here all day. Cold or hot macaroni and cheese is good any time. It goes with any meal, any dish, people even put macaroni and cheese on pizza and it's still AWESOME!

I don't have many memories of my grandma we moved from Georgia to Arizona when I was three. The first time I ever flew on a plane was to go back to see her. I stayed in her house for a week when I was eight. Those days at her house and the drive back to Arizona were the only time I saw my grandma after we moved. She died in the summer between my junior and senior year of high school. I wasn’t able to go to her funeral because I was in Fort Jackson, SC completing basic training for an early enlistment into the Army Reserves.

I never found out until I got back home from training that my grandma was gone. My family waited to tell me because they were worried, I would have to repeat all of basic if I left and they didn't want to upset me while I was still there. I've always felt a twinge of regret for not being there for her. Though I did make the journey to say my goodbyes to her on a summer day a year after her passing.

Standing under the hot Georgia sun looking at her name Buena Smith etched in stone I thought about the bowls of macaroni and cheese in her kitchen. I thought about how sweet she was. I thought about how much she loved me.

The last thing I thought before I left her grave was how my whole life whether I was going to see her, or someone just mentioned her, my grandma always made me feel a little lighter in my step, a little happier in my heart, a little more like nothing could ever go wrong.

What I remember most about my grandma was her brighter than any day smile. Grandma absolutely lit up the world every time she gave it. In my several childhood homes, my mom always kept a picture in the living room of her parents on a beach in Florida taken back in the early nineteen sixties. Growing up I often looked at that picture. I would stand on the worn-out carpet of whatever apartment we were in and stare at my grandma’s smile. I'd look at my grandpa’s face as he sat with his arm around her waist. I would see the stoic look he wore contrasted by my grandma’s shinning smile and think that's where I come from.

There are a few other things I remember about my grandma. I remember the way she always wore her black hair in a perm. I remember her polyester pants and floral print dress shirts. The BIGFOOT truck she bought me on my one visit after we moved. A dinner with her on the road back to Arizona. The birthday cards she sent.

I remember standing scared beside her in the front yard of her home when my crazy uncle Benny came to see his long-lost nephew. I remember playing with the BIGFOOT under the plum trees my grandpa, who I was named after, who I never met because he died of cancer before I was born, planted. I remember the smell of her house. The size of her big purse. But next to her smile I remember more than anything how every second I spent with her always felt like home.

My grandma passed now twenty-seven years ago. My kids now call my mom, grandma. I'm a long way away from the kid who got excited every time we had macaroni and cheese. Now it's my five-year-old who runs around screaming I want macaroni cheese. I've tried to get her to add the and, but so far, it's been a futile effort. Which I don't mind because it's cute the way she says it.

There is one thing that hasn't changed since I was the kid who loved macaroni and cheese. Every time even today when I have a bowl of macaroni and cheese I think of my grandma and the memory I have in her kitchen. And each time I do, I feel a part of the kid I was waking back up inside me and a part of her coming back to life.

Love ya, grandma. Still miss you all the time.