The Miracle Mac 'n' Cheese
By Olivia Chin
FEATURED IN VOL 6, ISSUE 1: Around the table
One cloudy summer evening in a quiet Memphis neighborhood, a miracle occurred.
The miracle worker, born and raised in Bells, was my grandmother, Nell Davis Skelton. She had curly, dyed brown hair that was often styled in a pouf reminiscent of a sixties beehive. The large, pitch-black sunglasses that she often wore made me think of a movie star, and she acted like one, too: confident, stylish, opinionated. There was always some new gossip to talk about with Grandmama, and she’d worry and judge and laugh about it in turn. She’d twist her ankle around and around as she talked to you, a sign of pent-up, nervous energy.
Grandmama was, among other things, a cook. Her kitchen was small, but it smelled like fresh rolls or greens, depending on the day. The ranch-style Memphis house that she lived in was just the right size to host my family of four for a meal. Even though Grandmama was getting older, she still loved to cook for herself and us. We’d ask her to sit down, let us stir what was in the boiling pot, but she’d be right back up again before we could blink. Her back problems meant nothing to her when she was trying to cook.
We enjoyed Grandmama’s cooking, especially the Sara Lee rolls that she covered in butter. But to be honest, Grandmama was not known for her skills at mac ‘n’ cheese. I don’t know which kinds of cheese she used for it- Velveeta? American?- but her mac ‘n’ cheese was often crusty. The noodles were a light yellow color, while huge globs of a dark orange mixture melded it all together. My brother and I were taught to scoop a small bit onto our plates and eat it anyway, but we made sure to immediately wash it down with whichever Coke product that Grandmama had in her spare refrigerator. It wasn’t like the mac ‘n’ cheese that Mom made at home in Jackson, which was full of various shredded cheeses and milk and was creamy, not crunchy.
Everything would change on that one summer evening.
Dad drove Mom, my brother Nathaniel, and me back from our Arizona trip with the tired focus of a man on a mission. Piled up in our gold minivan that we just called “The Van,” we stared out the windows and listened to our stomachs begin to rumble. We were returning from our one and only big road trip as a family, and I felt both relieved and sad. I had never been to the Southwest before, and I fell in love with the dry air and blue skies. Returning to the Southeast was both a comfort and an annoyance. We’d left behind the cacti, oil wells, and succulent gardens to drive back to humidity, giant trees, and clouds. The weather is always unpredictable in Tennessee, but one thing is for sure: the summer air is going to be so thick you may as well choke on it.
The Van wound its way through miles and miles of Interstate until we reached Memphis, our last stop before Jackson. I remember pulling up to my Grandmama’s house, yellow brick with a small front porch, and I think we parked in her backyard for some reason? Then the four of us tumbled out of The Van and into her kitchen.
Grandmama had prepared a home-cooked dinner for us in celebration of our return. Sometimes we’d just order Papa John’s and eat sausage pizza at Grandmama’s table, but not today. She had been working in the kitchen for hours to cultivate a feast.
I can’t remember everything we ate in detail, but it was probably something like this: creamed corn, turnip greens, Sara Lee rolls, dry white turkey. What I do remember, and what my family still talks about in wonder to this day, was the mac ‘n’ cheese. There it was, in its yellow and orange glory, in a giant glass dish that begged to be eaten by less-than-willing but dutiful grandchildren. Nathaniel eyed the dish like it was a prison cell for his tastebuds, but he plopped the mixture onto his plate like always, and I quickly followed.
The first bite of the mac ‘n’ cheese was followed instantly by gasps around the table.
“Grandmama,” I groaned. “This is the best mac ‘n’ cheese you have ever made!”
Somehow, a miracle had happened. Everyone was getting seconds before their firsts were even finished. Plates were piling up with mac ‘n’ cheese all over the kitchen. Grandmama beamed as we all praised the mac ‘n’ cheese, which was abruptly creamy and delicious instead of crunchy and weird like her other batches (we didn’t mention her other batches in the praise). Mom later seemed offended- didn’t we remember how much we liked her mac ‘n’ cheese at home, which was always consistent?- but we were all united in how this special batch of mac ‘n’ cheese was the greatest we had ever tasted at Grandmama’s house.
We asked Grandmama what she had put in the mac ‘n’ cheese, careful not to make disparaging remarks about her former batches, but she said that she had just mixed the same ingredients and set the same cook time that she had for years. The oven was the same, the kitchen the same, the glass dish the same- it was secretly infuriating. What had changed?
Years later, my family would still speculate about just why the mac ‘n’ cheese was so good that day. Was it the fact that we were all so tired and hungry from our long road trip, and we just desperately craved some home cooking? Had Grandmama forgotten that she had made a change to the recipe? Was Grandmama’s crusty mac ‘n’ cheese actually objectively good all along, and it took a more creamy batch for us to finally see the light?
There was one thing that we all agreed on: this was to be known henceforth as the “Miracle Mac ‘n’ Cheese.” We couldn’t explain it, and my dad’s pastor status gave the word “Miracle” a little extra weight to the event. Grandmama never made that same quality of mac ‘n’ cheese again- she stopped cooking in the years that followed, as her health started to decline and she moved away from her home to live with my uncle and his partner in Southaven. Watching Grandmama missing out on her favorite activities due to her health- cooking, doing her hair and makeup, shopping, playing on the floor with great-grandchildren- was devastating.
Still, even after Grandmama had passed away, we always remembered the brightness that made her who she was. She was the strong woman who kept the family going when Grandaddy died suddenly, and she was the power-walking, deal-finding investigator whose energy for shopping outlasted the younger family members every time. Grandmama held baby after baby- her own, and then her grandchildren and great-grandchildren- and her arms didn’t tire. She sang hymns when Grandaddy annoyed her, and she answered to every name that we gave her over the years: “Sweetheart,” “Grandmama,” and “Mother.” I think we remember the Miracle Mac ‘n’ Cheese not as a joke, although it was funny, but as a tribute to Grandmama. She wasn’t perfect- none of us are- but she was loved.
This article appeared in print in Vol. 6, Issue 1: Around Our Table.
Originally from Medon, Tennessee, Olivia Chin is the Circulation Manager at the Union University Library. Her best Halloween costumes (so far) have been David Bowie and Freddie Mercury. Her favorite hobbies include drinking local coffee, reading true crime novels, and going to emo concerts with her husband.