My news feed has been filled with things about “Self-Care” lately. Now, admittedly I’m not the most open-minded person I know. But, it just seemed so ridiculous for a new mom to concern herself with any sort of “Self-Care”. “How selfish”, I thought.
We had a rough week last week with the baby being sick. It’s totally thrown his whole sleeping schedule out of whack. He wakes up very early, doesn’t like to nap, and gets bored easily. I have been exhausted to a point that I’ve never felt before. My husband asked me last night if I wanted him to take the baby to daycare in the morning. I hesitated, and then said yes. I immediately felt guilty. I had to work the closing shift today. I went in at 4 and didn’t get home until 2am. I knew I needed sleep but it didn’t matter. Guilt of a parent is palpable at times.
As my husband pulled out of the driveway this morning, our son in the backseat, I almost ran after him. I didn’t want the baby to go to daycare. I missed him the second they were out the door. But he needed to. For all of us.
I had a list a mile long of things that needed to be done today. Clothes put away, closets cleaned out, carpets washed. Yada, yada, yada. I didn’t get the carpets washed. That’s on the docket for tomorrow. Instead I did something I love. Something I’ve been wanting to do but haven’t had the energy or time in several months. I tried a new recipe and made something from scratch.
It came out of the oven looking like absolute perfection. And all was right in the world. It centered me, inspired me, excited me. I guess this whole Self-Care stuff isn’t such bologna after all.
Tomorrow I’m going to buy a book. Maybe a new cookbook. Reading is another thing I love that I haven’t taken the time to do. And if that isn’t the epitome of optimism for a new mom, well then, I don’t know what is.
1 1/2 cups All purpose flour
1/2 tsp Baking powder
1/2 tsp Baking soda
1/2 cup Brown sugar, lightly packed
1 tsp Cinnamon
1 pinch Nutmeg
1/2 tsp Salt
1 cup Milk chocolate chips
1/2 cup Sugar
1 tsp Vanilla extract
1/2 cup Canola oil
1/2 cup Greek yogurt, plain
1 cup Shredded Zucchini
Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Butter and flour a 9 x 5 loaf pan and set aside.
In a large bowl mix together the flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, cinnamon and nutmeg.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the egg, oil, both sugars, greek yogurt and vanilla extract until combined.
Add the wet ingredients to the dry ingredients and fold gently. Do not over mix.
Fold in the zucchini and chocolate chips.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and bake for 40-50 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.
Remove from the oven and let cool in the pan for 20 minutes.
Take the loaf out of the pan and allow it to cool completely on a wire rack.
If any of you would like to share how you “Self-Care”, I’d love to read it. Or if you have a good book to recommend, I’m all ears. Well… Eyes.
This is our view from Nikola’s room at The Barbara Bush Children’s Hospital. Our baby was admitted this past Thursday because of a mysterious fever, rash, fussiness combo. Since becoming a mom I have googled everything under the sun related to babies, but this one was too scary. Their initial concern was Bacterial Meningitis. It takes 48 hours for the results from the spinal tap to come back. So while their concern is immediate, the results are not. It has been a long couple of days. When he was born and in the NICU things were tough. But at no point was he in pain. This time, that hasn’t been the case. So many tests, pokes, and prods. It took more than six hours for the doctors to collect all of the different fluids they’d need. Nikola cried most of that time. And so did we. The feeling you get when your child is in pain is just as indescribable as the amount of love you have for them. I had to prop myself up against a wall, the crying was uncontrollable. Hence, the crying hangover. I haven’t had one since I had to leave the hospital without him when he was born. And before that, it was my brother’s accident. They are every bit as awful as the ones induced by alcohol. Just a lot sadder.
But we got some great news a little while ago. His Doctor came in and said that everything had come back negative. They don’t know the exact cause of the fever but are considering it a viral infection most likely picked up at daycare. Effing daycare. We should be able to go home later today.
A few people have asked lately if I was still blogging. During the pregnancy I had terrible pregnancy brain, I could barely form sentences let alone put together a coherent blog post. And since giving birth, well, I’ve been a little busy.
But more than either of those reasons I worried I didn’t have anything to say. I thought that my experiences and opinions weren’t of value because I’m so new to the role of Mom. But all of the research I’ve done for everything from best diaper bags to infant cognitive milestones has largely been based on a matter of opinion. Even doctors opinions differ. To our great frustration, I might add. Just today we’ve been told that he’d be going home at 1 and then were told that it would be 6. An RN just came in 15 minutes ago and mentioned something about tomorrow. Nothing has changed in Nikolas condition throughout the day, just the doctor at shift change.
So maybe my opinion on Dr. Brown’s bottles would be of value to someone. Or maybe sharing our experience of having a baby in the NICU or even the experience we’re having now could help someone. Somewhere. At some point.
I’m pregnant. After 2 years and 11 months of trying, my husband and I finally got a positive pregnancy test. We spent a lot of money on sticks that I had to pee on, went to doctors, had fertility tests (all came back fine), and even tried in vitro. All with no luck. But, as of 2 days ago, we are 17 weeks pregnant.
We found out the morning of October 11th. The day we left for our trip to Macedonia. I was about 5 days late at that point. I’m a superstitious person and after not just months, but literally years of getting excited every 28 days, and taking a test early only to be disappointed, I resolved to wait. Wait until I was really late, like reeeaallly late. I didn’t want to jinx it. My husband Kruno was getting more and more excited as those late days passed by. When I did take the test, I didn’t tell him what I was doing. It came back positive almost immediately. I called for him to come to the bathroom. Drudgingly, he came. He thought I needed him in to kill a bug. I showed him the test and excitement ensued.
The last 17 weeks have been enlightening. I learn something new every day. About my body, my abilities or lack thereof, and places I can, all of sudden, no longer comfortably reach because of my growing size.
And with every minute of research I’ve done since that positive test, I’ve become more and more aware that I know nothing about pregnancy, labor, and perhaps even babies. And I’d like to share with you all some of the more interesting revelations I’ve had.
WHATS HAPPENING TO ME???
This question came early and often. Google became my most used app. How could I have been so clueless? In movies and TV, pregnant women are portrayed in a certain way. Emotional. Vomiting, Bitchy. I thought I was mentally prepared for all of it, but the other symptoms and the pure intensity hit me like a wrecking ball
I get so emotional, baby…
The first to rear its ugly head was the elevated hormones. I’m an emotional person to begin with. But I naively thought “How much worse could this get?” Well… Let me tell ya.
Every emotion I feel, I feel it times a hundred, maybe even a thousand. If I’m sad, it borders on devastation. If I’m angry, watch out. But the most notable change is that I am loving harder. I love people HARD. Wicked hard. Over this past holiday, I looked at my young nephews, I just wanted to grab them and not let go. I wanted to look them square in the eyes and say sternly ” I love you, dammit!” (Picture Rhett Butler saying that to Scarlet O’Hara in “Gone with the wind”. But, I thought better of it. The boys are young and I didn’t want to scare the shit out of them.) And when I left my grandmothers house to come back home, I cried for a long time. She lives just a few hours away. I can go see her any weekend. And as I’m typing this, thinking about how much I love these people and how much I miss them, I’m crying. I’m a mess.
And my crying has changed. The act of it itself. These crying spells last forever. My tears have even gotten bigger. The amount of fluid that is falling from my eyeballs is astounding. My tears are the size of nickles, I kid you not. Isn’t that weird? Has anyone else experienced that while pregnant? And because of all these things. The dehydration from the size and quantity of tears, and the ease at which I cry, I have had to completely change how and when I view things. For example, I’m spending far less time on Facebook these days. I used to love watching the heart-warming videos. that would populate my newsfeed. But no more. I can’t risk it. I also haven’t been able to watch several episodes of “This is us”. I watched a few at the beginning of the season, but when I saw the previews of the one where Kate has a miscarriage, all bets were off. Now the second part of the season is supposed to start and I’m in a pickle. Do I devote an entire day to catching up on the season? Let’s do that math: 4 episodes I missed = 4 hours of viewing. + 2 hours of crying time (conservatively) + 1 hour of recuperation to let the puffiness in my face dissipate. That’s a big commitment.
My body is a wonderland
No, no it isn’t. While it is mystifying me these days, I don’t think that’s what John Mayer meant. You can read Pinterest posts, join the community group chats in your pregnancy apps and read “What to expect when you’re expecting” all you want, but I guarantee you, something is going to happen that will throw you for a loop. From my albeit brief experience, I’ve come to realize that it’s important to use the mentioned resources as merely a guideline. Most of my symptoms have occurred earlier than normal.
One of the most notable and noticeable changes were that things errrr… grew a bit quicker than I would’ve expected. Below is a screenshot of a conversation I had with a group of friends about my husband noticing a change.
My clothes got tighter right off the bat. And I thought “Ok, no big deal. This was expected I’ll go buy some new clothes.” But it isn’t that easy. Nothing fits right. Nothing. I’m not big enough for maternity clothes, but my stomach is too big for regular clothes. Everything I own at this point is frumpy. And because of the heightened emotions, the ill-fitting clothing sends me into a spiral of self-consciousness and frustration. There are days that I can’t even look in the mirror before I leave for work. Those days are the “Fuck it” days. And they are happening more frequently as the pregnancy progresses.
One other thing that I started noticing recently was my walk has changed. I used to have a confident stride. I don’t know why considering how clumsy I am, but I did. I used to be able to comfortably wear heels up to a certain height. But that’s all gone now. As the day goes on, and I get to feeling less and less comfortable, my walk transforms. Slowly, subtly, into a waddle. At work by 4 pm, as I go to and from the printer I notice my body shifting from side to side, with a brief but significant settle in each step. I will immediately correct it, but I know deep down that it’s going to come to a point when I’m no longer am able to. It is inevitable. The waddle is coming.
Don’t you, forget about me
“Of all the things I have lost, I miss my mind the most”. Mark Twain must have stolen this from his wife when she was pregnant. People talk about pregnancy brain often. But nothing prepares you for it. I am not just forgetting things, but I’m thinking I do things or say things that I don’t. “Didn’t I tell you that?” has become my most used sentence recently. A few weeks ago I had mentioned to my boss that I had forgotten to text some family members back recently. She was understandably concerned whereas my job is mostly following up with clients and remembering things. I assured her that I only let it affect my home life. And that is the truth. I noticed that this was starting to happen, so the moment I leave work, I totally shut off my brain. So far, it seems to be working. While this doesn’t thrill my husband, it’s a sacrifice we’ll have to make until I figure something else out. I haven’t written a post in a really long time. Not because I didn’t have anything to write, or I was too busy. I have been conserving all of my brain cells for work. This post, in fact, has taken an exceptionally long time. I’ve been storing up for weeks to finish it. Now, I’m no neurologist but I think there might be some logic to it.
While this is only a short list of the symptoms I’ve experienced, these are what has struck me as funny. I think it’s important to keep levity at the forefront. Because what awaits us at the end is going to be the most momentous experience of our lives. We are so excited to be parents and I am excited to share our little stories throughout the process. S
I have been working on this post for weeks. Today, I decided to start over. My post was long, and unnecessarily so. It didn’t accomplish what I had wanted it to. It’s tone and the overall message was lost with every paragraph. So here we are. At the beginning.
One year ago, my brother was in an accident. It has been a long three hundred and sixty-five days. I don’t want or need to rehash every sad, upsetting detail. But, I do want to share with you all some of the more poignant moments and some observations that have stuck with me over the last year.
I remember when I got the call from JJ’s foreman, Ian. But more so, I remember the phone call I got from dad shortly after. I asked Ian if JJ was alive. When he answered “yes”, there was no denying the uncertainty voice. I knew what he was saying without saying it. I knew what the tone of that “yes” meant. JJ WAS alive when I left him, but I don’t know if he still is. My dad asked me the same question just minutes after. I wanted to be strong and say sternly, confidently “Yes!” but the words had, unintentionally, come out the exact same way Ian had said it. Unconvincingly.
After I arrived at the hospital, I talked with the nurses and then found the ICU waiting room. I opened the door and was immediately taken aback. The people in the room were talking loudly, laughing, eating. All these things, I couldn’t fathom happening in a place like that. This was supposed to be a place of tragedy, a place for reflection, prayer, and quiet whispered voices. I hated the waiting room with every ounce of my being. I couldn’t stay in there. I honestly, truly couldn’t. Luckily, there was a private waiting room we were told we could use. And by god we did. It was supposed to be for doctors to have consultations with the family of patients. I thought about the tough questions asked and some even tougher answers given in that room. I prayed that that wouldn’t be us. We stayed in that room for three days. And just when we had gotten a little less sad, enough to where we could tolerate talking, and smiling we gave up the room to someone who needed it more. It didn’t last long, we were back in there by day 5. The day JJ’s artery gave out.
That first night, we had been told, that it was going to be a long one. The first time we got to talk to a doctor was around 8 or 9 that night. JJ had been in surgery since one o’clock. Dr. Brown told us that he was the orthopedic surgeon that had been working on JJ. He was impressed with the double femur break JJ had suffered. He said that if you had to have a broken femur (or 2) this is the way to do it. It was a clean break. Flat across. He told us that the bones would be able to fuse with little to no problem, he believed. He said that if all this injury was, was a couple of broken femurs, JJ would be out of here in a few days. But that, as we would come to know, wasn’t the case.
A few hour later we got to talk to the second surgeon. He told us what he had seen and maybe more importantly, what he hadn’t. JJ had lost a lot of tissue, muscle, nerves, and lots of blood. He went through 107 units that day. But most distressing were his arteries. They were completely shredded. I asked the doctor if there was anything I could do. If there was anything that he could take from me to give to J. I told him that he could have whatever he wanted. The doctor smirked and shook his head a little. I could tell he had thought of it. I have no doubt. Maybe not my arteries specifically, but someones. His face said it all. That very thought had come to him. I didn’t delve any deeper. But my father and I both let him know in no uncertain terms that whatever JJ needed, we were happy to give.
At 2 am we were told that they were wrapping up the surgery and they’d be bringing JJ up soon. From the room we were in we could see JJ’s. We stood on chairs, we craned our necks. Did whatever we had to do so we could catch a glimpse of him. And at 3:30, they told us we could go in to see him. He didn’t look like himself. He was so swollen. But I have never been so happy to see someone in my entire life. We asked the prognosis. Torn between the desire to know and the dread that may come with the answer. JJ was, without a doubt, still in critical condition. When the doctor talked about the prognosis, he wasn’t referring to if he would lose a leg or both, it was if JJ would survive. I will never forget that moment.
After a few days JJ had started to come to. Never for long, only a few minutes and then he’d be back to sleep. But when he was awake, he wanted to communicate. It was a tall order with the breathing tube in. Someone got him a small dry erase board. He would try and write something, sometimes falling asleep in the middle of writing, and we would be left with the task of deciphering it. We may as well have been decoding ancient hieroglyphics. And when we couldn’t figure it out, we would start guessing like we were playing a game of charades. Is that an I? No? Ok, is it an L? No? Shit, is it a J? Nope. Then after a minute or two, when all of the energy he had, had drained out of him, he would let his hands drop from equal parts exhaustion and frustration and his eyes would fill with tears and he would shake his head as if to say “I give up”. That was, without a doubt, one of the hardest parts for me. There he was helpless, relying on us to help him, and I couldn’t. I was not a good guesser.
One of the first things that we were able to read was the word “boots”. Mom said, “your boots are right here, J. On the shelf”. She showed them to him. The sense of confusion on his face was unmistakable. My mom and I looked at each other. She knew right away why he was confused. Call it mothers intuition. She said “J, your boots are fine. Your feet didn’t go into the chipper.” His eyebrows became unfurrowed, almost like at that very second, everything came back to him. In fact, one night after the boots incident, mom asked him if he remembered the accident. He nodded as best as he could, and then wrote: “They didn’t believe me.” Later he would explain what he had meant. When his co-worker had been on the phone with 911, JJ told him to tell the dispatcher to get life flight started. He knew that they carried blood on the helicopter and that he was going to need it. But what he either didn’t know or didn’t think about at the time, is that patients can’t request life flight, it has to come from the paramedic.
The hardest day was undoubtedly the day JJ’s right leg artery gave out. It was the first Monday after the accident. The nurses would come in every few hours and pull out this black box that had a stethoscope in the shape of a pen connected it to it. They would put it on the top of JJ’s feet, one by one, and move it around until they heard a swishy sound. That sound was his pulse. That day, they had checked it before he went down to surgery. A process we had already come to know well. And when he would come back. One nurse tried, then another. No swishy sound. They called for the doctor. The room was silent.
The doctor confirmed what we all had suspected. At the very beginning, we had been told that the repair to his arteries was a kind of one and done deal. They weren’t sure if the gore-tex that had put in would hold. Each leg had a 50/50 shot they told us. But it didn’t matter. We wanted a second opinion. We asked that his file be sent to mass Gen to see what they said. JJ had woken up, and I think it was dad who explained the situation to him. He took it well. You could tell he understood and agreed.
A couple of hours later a report came back from Boston. There was nothing that could be done. The right leg would have to be amputated. We cried. A lot. I went to the chapel for a while. Eventually, we all reconvened in JJ’s room. J woke up and motioned for his dry erase board. He wrote, what I made out to be “ambulance or helicopter.” He wanted to know how he was getting to Boston. I read it aloud so he could confirm my guess. He did. This was, for me, the hardest moment of JJ’s hospital stay. I looked at him and said “J, you’re not going to Mass Gen. I’m so sorry. They said that there was nothing they could do.” He stared at the ceiling for a minute, cried only a couple of tears, and fell back asleep.
Not long after, the doctor came back in to explain the procedure for the amputation. We were all listening intently when I looked over and noticed JJ had woken up and was listening too. The doctor started over from the beginning to make sure J heard everything he had said. Nurses came in to start the pre-op prep like they had done earlier. They gave J and an extra dose of whatever powerful concoction he was already on. He fell asleep immediately. One of them asked dad to sign a piece of paper allowing them to amputate. And that, I have no doubt, was dad’s toughest moment. He said he didn’t want JJ to hate him for making that decision. For signing that piece of paper. More tears came.
Now, looking back, the days that follow sort of melt together in a way. But certain moments stick out. The bigger ones, certainly more at the beginning and then start to taper. Like when he got his breathing tube out. There was a nurse on duty that J had taken a liking to. He said to her, “Can I ask you a personal question? Why do I get the feeling that you like me?” Listen, I’ve seen my brother interact with women, and I must say, this was, surprisingly, one of his more charismatic moments.
One of the only times I have seen JJ cry was one of his first nights in his regular room. Everyone was concerned about his mental state. Probably because we were all such a mess we assumed he must be too. It was just him and I and I can’t remember the exact wording I used but I asked him what and how he was feeling. He told me that the hardest part was that he would never be a firefighter again. He cried real hard, and so did I. I told him that if there was something he wanted to do, then he would figure out a way to do it. I had. and still have, no doubt of that. I found a video of a firefighter in Ohio who had an amputation almost exactly like JJ’s. He had been outfitted with a special prosthetic that worked perfectly. He wasn’t on light duty, the guy was fighting fires. I watched J watch the video and then we cried some more.
On Sundays, we would have football parties in his room. We’d bring a cooler and whatever JJ wanted to eat. He had lost so much weight. He was already thin and didn’t have much to lose. When he was able to eat, which was about once or twice every other day, he didn’t eat much. He wanted a special soup. We always called it green soup. Our nanny would make it for us. Kruno went and bought every box Hannaford had. That’s what he’s eating is this picture. He was so happy to have that green soup.
Next came his time at Spaulding. They do some truly amazing work there. And JJ was the incredibly lucky to be the recipient of some of that amazing work. He has said several times that he doesn’t believe he’d be this far along if he hadn’t have gone there. It was hard, him being so far away, but it was for the best. We all knew it. I got this photo one day while I was at work.
I was so proud. JJ has made us all very proud throughout this experience. His resolve has been something to be admired. He would be a great role model for someone who’s gone through a similar experience.
He has worked very hard to get to where he is. I got to go with him to a physical therapy appointment a few months ago. To the naked eye, the unknowing person, it may have looked like he wasn’t doing much. Lifting a leg up and down, moving side to side. But to us, to know where he had been such a short time ago. The condition he was in. How hard he worked. It was nothing short of a miracle. We almost lost him…a few times. But here he is.
So many moments and memories stick out. Things that I want to share. But this post has again, turned out to be very long. They will have to be told at a later time. Maybe on his two year anniversary. The weird thing is, and I think I can speak for most of my family. We are now running on a different calendar. To me, and I’d bet to JJ too, tonight at midnight, marks a new year. With I’m sure, more milestones to conquer and mountains to move. He will continue to progress and heal, hopefully sharing his progress along the way. This past year JJ has been the recipient of more prayers and blessings then could ever be counted. And for that, our family is so incredibly grateful.
When we found the blueberry bushes in our yard, my mind immediately started racing. I don’t really care for the texture of most fruits, blueberries included. So I needed to be a little creative in what I made out of them. My first thought was jam. I had already been on a toast and jam kick for a while, so it was perfect.
A few months ago, my grandfather spent some time at our house. In the morning, I would ask him what he’d like for breakfast. It was always the same thing, toast with jam and coffee. Normally, at home, he’d tell me, he would only have one piece. But, since he was at our house, he’d have two pieces of toast. I don’t know what it is about our house. Maybe because it’s a few hours away from his, he felt like he was on vacation? He wanted to let loose a little bit. I know when I’m on vacation I usually eat more than I do normally. Anyways, because of that, a breakfast of two pieces of toast is now known as the Bampie Special at our house.
I have never made jam. Initially, the process seemed daunting. Just the set up alone was intense. I knew there had to be an easier way. I just had to find it. And luckily, I did. It’s called Freezer jam. It’s delicious. And this is how I made it.
2 Cups blueberries
2 cups sugar
Half a lemon
1 package of fruit pectin
1/2 cup water
6, 8oz ball mason jars
In a bowl, combined blueberries, sugar and juice from the halved lemon. Use a potato masher to smush (that’s very technical kitchen lingo) the ingredients together. Once sufficiently smushed, let sit for 15 minutes. While that’s doing it’s thing, pour water and pectin packet in a small sauce pot and heat to boiling while stirring constantly. Boil and stir mixture for 1 minute. Combined the pectin mixture with the blueberries and stir constantly for 3 minutes.
Pour into mason jars and let stand at room temperature for 24 hours or until the mixture has set. Then, put in freezer for up to 6 months.
Also, I bet this mixture would be amazing in a homemade pop-tart. Check out my homemade Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop Tart recipe to get started. Just put this blueberry lemon jam inside instead of the brown sugar cinnamon mixture. And instead of adding cinnamon to the icing, use lemon zest. Man, I’m already super excited to try this out later this week. If anyone makes either of these recipes, I would love to hear how they turned out!
I found some blueberry bushes on our property a few weeks ago. We only have 2 acres. But those two are filled with apple trees, blackberry bushes, a pear tree and several blueberry bushes. Most of which we didn’t know about before we bought the house.
A few weeks ago, when we found the blueberries, we had already missed out on the first round to ripen. Hundreds of blueberries littered the ground. But that didn’t matter much. Our first haul garnered six and a half pounds of some of the biggest blueberries I have ever seen.
I don’t even really like blueberries. I mean, they’re alright. But finding them, picking them and cleaning them has brought something out in me that I didn’t know was there. A foragers instinct that I’ve never explored. Every few days I’ll go and survey the land. I’ll take my colander just in case anything is ready to be picked. I’ll stop by my pear tree, check on the one pear that still hangs. At one time there were 2 pears on it, but something got one of them. After I confirm that the pear, is in fact, still in the tree, I move on to the blueberry bushes. I pick what I can. Trying to contain my excitement at the bounty so as to not pick any before they’re ready.
Next, I move on the apple trees. When we did our home inspection before we bought it last year, our inspector was pretty impressed by how old the trees appeared to be. Upon inspection of the apples, some research, and a professionals opinion we have concluded that these are Baldwin apples. One of the oldest types of apples there is. First introduced to Maine in the late 1700’s. They are great for making pies, apple sauce, and cider. A couple of friends came over for dinner the other night and they tried some of the apples. The smaller one they tried was still tart, but the bigger one was sweet. They should be great for baking.
I told my husband the other day that I wanted to be a farmer. He looked concerned. I assured him that I meant as a hobby, not a profession. We are going to work our way up to getting some chickens next spring, I think. In the meantime, I wanted to make sure I could keep something alive, other than humans and dogs. So I started a herb garden. So far so good. Much better than my succulent garden last year.
As the weather changes and fall creeps in, the thought of all the baking and cooking possibilities with these provisions gets me even more excited for fall than I usually am. I’ve already tried out a few recipes that I’m excited to share here soon. So keep your eyes peeled for:
A very good friend of mine taught me how to make homemade macaroni and cheese. She is an amazing chef and has worked in some of my favorite restaurants in Portland, Maine. I think a lot of people make theirs by adding shredded cheese directly to the macaroni and baking it. This recipe is very different. In this one, you make a cheese sauce and just about drown the macaroni in it before baking. And because of this, the left overs are still perfectly cheesy. I hope my rendition of her recipe will do her and her amazing dish proud.
1, 1lb box of pasta. Pick your noodle. I usually go for a medium shell.
4 Tbsps of Butter
2 Tbsp of Flour
Salt and Pepper
Roughly 1/2 a quart of half and half
2 cups shredded cheese blend. This is really where I can leave it up to you. Any type of cheese you want will probably be fine. Sometimes I make it with all cheddar and other times I throw a softer cheese in the mix, like gruyere or Monterey jack.
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Cook macaroni until completely done. Make sure the water is very well salted. While that’s boiling, make a roux. Melt butter in a medium sized pot. Once melted, add flour and whisk. The roux should be a fairly thick consistency. If it seems too thin, add more flour. Add half a quart of half & half. Whisk together well. Once the mixture has heated up a bit (but before it’s boiling) add the cheese mixture, stirring constantly. The sauce will thicken as the mixture reaches a simmer. If cheese sauce gets too thick, add more half & half. Add salt and pepper to taste.
When pasta is done, strain and put in an oven safe casserole dish or large bowl. Pour cheese sauce over macaroni and stir together. Put in the oven for 10 minutes and serve.
Other Variations: Feel free to play around with this. Everyone has a staple way they make homemade Mac N Cheese. Don’t be afraid to try something new or add something to the dish. Sometimes I cookkielbasa and add it to the dish before I bake it. I’ve also cooked very crispy bacon, chopped it up and put that in there. Sometimes I put crushed Ritz crackers on the top. I’ve also put seasoned, crushed breadcrumbs on top. Make it your own. There is no wrong way to do this. Unless it tastes terrible, then you have in fact done something wrong. But I’m sure you’ll be fine.