Kraft Dinner Meets Marcel Proust

Last week I did the first of what has turned out to be a (short) series of posts about staples of my boyhood diet. Campbell's Tomato Soup--Kraft Dinner--Bisquick--Hot Dogs--and a few more are on the way. (Link to that earlier post.)

And last night for supper I mixed up the first batch of Kraft Dinner I've had in well over forty years. It's not all that hard (as many [most?] of you know): boiling water, mixing a little milk, a little butter, a package of God-knows-what that comes in the Kraft Dinner box. Below, you see the "arrangement" as I photographed it last night before posting it on Facebook (quite a few "likes" and comments, by the way--not all comments positive, either). Some friendly Friends offered modifications of the recipe, modifications that sounded pretty good, actually. But I was determined to re-create the Past.

So ... I followed the directions, though I made a little spill from the envelope of "cheese" (or whatever it is). I served the mixture on a plate alongside the grilled turkey-and-cheese sandwich I'd prepared, as well. Joyce, by the way, I could not convince to add a little pile to her salad supper.

And at the first bite--and you can ask Joyce if this is true or not--I said, in my finest Proustian prose, "That takes me back" (a saying that was simultaneously one of my dad's favorites and my mom's most dreaded).

I really did have a Proust-and-madeleine moment--a gustatory gust of wind that swept me back to early days in Enid, Oklahoma--and beyond--when we often had Kraft Dinner. (We were ever on what Dad called an "austerity plan.") It was one of my favorite side dishes--hell, it was one of my most favorite meals. (And, later, it kept me alive during my early years of teaching when money was mostly a rumor.)

But--let's keep it 100, shall we?--the nostalgia lasted only about two bites, and then my stomach began its protest: What in the hell are you doing? it barked at me. I tried a few more bites, and Mr. Stomach became downright rebellious. One more bite of that, he growled ominously, and I can't be responsible for the consequences. And I knew that consequences, in this case, meant, well, the next step beyond eructation. I believe the proper medical term is upchuckery?

Joyce looked at me with a mixture of alarm and, well, something veering very near moral superiority.  "Are you all right?" she asked.

"I'm okay," I lied. And I ate not another molecule of it.

Before it disappeared down the disposer in the kitchen, some of it found its way into Joyce's mouth--she, too, had grown up with it, and, memoirist that she is, she had to give it a try. I should say here that her stomach was in concert with mine (in more ways than one), and, like me, she was both glad and sad that she'd tried it.

I know there are myriads of people out there who love Kraft Dinner--who swear by (rather than at) it. And all I can say is, "Good for you." Tastes are not universal; opinions are not uniform (in case you haven't noticed).

I loved it once; I don't love it anymore. It's that simple, that complicated.

But ... I am profoundly grateful that I tried it, for those few early moments were priceless.

And today--so far--my stomach has forgiven me--though I know I'm on probation.