“Macaroni & Cheese”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Dinner in a box. The focus of my subconscious mind.

In January of 1979, I was in a Cornell University apprenticeship program called ‘The Learning Web.’ This allowed me to experience local broadcasting at a real-time pace. I worked at Channel 13, a public access station, on West State Street in Ithaca, New York. Many skills were learned there while interacting with the crowd of journalists, technicians, students, teachers, artists, performers, local malcontents and poets. I joined this community by an accident of fate, but soon felt at home in the group. Though we were dissimilar in experiences, our unity came from a shared desire to be heard.

Each of us had something to say.

When I remember that era from my current vantage point of middle-aged angst, a more mature focus has taken hold. To be sure, echoes of Punk Rock and counterculture art remain prevalent. Also powerful are the life lessons cataloged while working with people who were not like each other. And the proficiency I mastered at handling video equipment in that era. But now, I savor an aroma of something else. A flavor delivered from a small cardboard box, with pasta and a sauce packet.

Macaroni & Cheese.

I was 17 at the beginning of that year. Still living at home on North Cayuga Street. My days at the Cerrache Cablevision studio were often long and exhausting. Typically, over a dozen hours or more. We sometimes stopped at the local State Diner for grub, after work. Or at Pete’s Cayuga Tavern, for refreshment. Yet my favorite nights were more lonely in character. On foot, I would head home through the clatter and chaos of downtown to my home on the city’s edge. There, I would nearly always find everyone else asleep. This subdued mood-after-dark fit my needs.

If I was lucky, there were boxes of mac dinner in the cupboard. On rare occasions, the blue one offered by Kraft, considered primo to my taste buds. More likely though, was the knock-off labeled Sunny Square, a staple item of household cuisine because they were regularly 5/$1.00 at our local P & C Supermarket. With one of our junk TV sets tuned to Johnny Carson, Three Stooges reruns or late movies from New York City, I would begin to cook for myself. These were early adventures as an ‘Outlaw Chef.’ Sometimes, rice and bouillon cubes had to suffice. Or fried potatoes. But the taste of elbows and cheese was my favorite. An easy foundation for kitchen improvisations. Quick and glorious.

Suited to my teenage palate.

We had plastic bowls among our inexpensive tableware that were thin and flimsy, but big enough to hold an entire dinner with accouterments. So I would make the boxed dinner, then add from whatever waited in the refrigerator. Sometimes this meant a meal with hamburger or chopped pork or bacon or bits of deli meat like salami or bologna. On other occasions the nightly feast took a vegetarian turn, with green peppers, fresh onions, cucumbers, carrots or radishes on top. When resources were slim, I relied on dried salad toppings or even Italian dressing. At the very least, spices such as garlic powder, red pepper, paprika or cumin added zest.

I just needed a potholder because the plastic bowl would become so hot.

The result would be a heap of starchy food, balanced in my lap. Enough to help me get through episodes of ‘The Life of Riley’ with Jackie Gleason or a movies such as ‘They Call Me Trinity’ with Bud Spencer and Terrence Hill or ‘Grave of the Vampire’ with William Smith and Michael Pataki. Frequently, I found note paper or old envelopes nearby and drew pictures while enjoying these moments of solitude. Or composed song lyrics for future projects.

I had unwittingly embraced a family tradition, even while feeding my face. There were always ideas to record. Work continued both day and night. My brain was never offline.

Eventually, these carb-rich banquets would break the intensity of my routine. I often fell asleep in the chair, only to wake with a first tease of morning at the window. By then, I had wandered too close to the reality of waking hours. My hope was always to avoid other family members as they were ready to greet the day. To complete my ritual of solitude. Lingering too long meant watching my father mix water and loose coffee grounds in his enameled pot, on the stove. Or hearing my brother snort and stir from his bed like a restless rhinoceros. I would climb the staircase with a full belly and my notes scribbled on paper. Winter months would end with an electric heater by my bed. Summer months concluded with a fan in the same spot. I had a corner room that felt cozy, but not gifted by good ventilation. Street lights made the window shades glow, long after dark. Still, these recollections seem precious, even from 40 years ago.

My belly was always full and my heart, always hopeful.

Later years would see me finding personal growth, a family of my own and career advancement. And predictably, battling with my weight. But nothing has equaled the prosperity I felt as a kid - armed with the TV Guide and a steaming bowl of macaroni & cheese.

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