DISH
Outside the box
with Maribeth Maloney
When it comes to making macaroni and cheese from scratch, I've got one question that needs to be answered: Does the intended beneficiary of my labor of love have the taste-bud faculties to appreciate the rich, oozing cheesiness of authenticity? If not, let them eat box.

Some moons ago, a pregnant friend with a craving begged me to whip some up. I was skeptical about whether she had the wherewithal to value the grandness of what she'd asked for. Not wanting her to go hormonal on me, I granted her request. She enjoyed my bubbly masterpiece all right; there was no doubt about that. She powered it down with all the reverence of a sock-and-sandaled cannibal at a 99 cent Vegas buffet, leaving me feeling that the homey goodness of my gesture was lost on her. She would have gotten her fix as easily from the congealed goo that lurks beneath sneezeguards.

I've made it since for other ungrateful sorts, namely the short people I live with. They want nothing to do with it and would prefer to eat dirt rather than any pious rendition that's not neon-orange. But that's my fault because when it comes to comfort foods, it's those first spoonsful that stay with you. Whether you like your mashed potatoes smooth or lumpy, your meatloaf with gravy or without, your chocolate chip cookies squishy or crunchy, all depends on whatever mom served you. Regrettably, I introduced the box before the homemade and there was no turning back once they experienced the 2,120 milligram sodium-buzz from that first package.

Although it seems so American, macaroni and cheese is actually thoroughly Italian. "Macaroni" is a corruption of the Italian word "maccherone," and while we generally synonymize it with elbow-shaped pasta, in Italy it refers to any shape of dried, eggless pasta cut into short pieces. Macaroni originated in Sicily and Campagnia, the area surrounding Naples, where the soil and climates are ideal for growing the essential ingredient, durum wheat.

By the late 1700s, pasta shops in Naples had swelled from a small handful to over 250. This was much to the delight of young English aristocrats for whom it had become popular to tour the area on holiday. When they returned home, not only did they take stashes of macaroni with them, but they were also called "macaronis" by their countrymen because of the foreign affectations they'd picked up. Alluding to the flamboyant crest of a bird species known as the "macaroni penguin," the term at the time referred to an overblown hairstyle, as well as the dandy whose head it sat atop. That also accounts for Yankee Doodle and his feather in the ditty the British dreamed up to mock American colonists, "doodle" coming from a German slang word for "simpleton."

Macaroni was enjoyed throughout Italy with a range of sauces and when the English arrived in America they brought their favorite with them: slow-baked with cheese and cream, simply dubbed, "macaroni cheese." Early colonial cookbooks reflected the popularity of the dish, with the upper class enjoying the snob appeal of purchasing macaroni imported from Italy.

But as pasta factories began sprouting up in the U.S., the availability caused not just the cheesy casserole, but pasta in general, to lose its cachet among the elite. Having become known as the food of common people in Italy by the late 19th century, pasta silently dropped off the menus of upscale American restaurants, even if they were owned and operated by Italians.

Enter the "Kraft Dinner." In 1937, the company that introduced the world to processed cheese 22 years earlier began running advertisements during commercial breaks in radio programs: "A meal for four in nine minutes for an everyday price of 19 cents." With the country emerging from the Depression and milk and eggs being rationed, weary housewives were positively giddy. It didn't matter that it wasn't the comfort food of yore, it worked, and over eight million boxes were sold that first year.

Since the introduction of Kraft macaroni and cheese, our neighbors to the north have been the world's largest per capita consumers, the heftiest share of the 2 million boxes sold a day going home with them. Although the packaging in the U.S. eventually changed with the addition of the ampersand separating "mac" and "cheese," the original "Kraft Dinner" stuck in Canada, so much so that it's become part of their popular culture, the slang for which is "KD."

In my life, Kraft didn't become a factor until college; it was the one thing standing between me, and other dorm-bound paupers like myself, and starvation. My siblings and I were raised on Howard Johnson's frozen and were even fortunate enough to live near one of the A-roofed eateries for occasional indulgence of having HOJO do the defrosting. Little did we know we were experiencing early haute cuisine; a certain unknown chef by the name of Jacques Pépin ran the test kitchens of the company for a decade, having been hired by Howard himself in 1960.

Though the HOJO's brand is still kicking around in supermarkets today, my short people won't eat it. Not a

chance. They don't acknowledge mac and cheese that comes from inside the oven. It has to come from the stovetop and involve a packet of powder, preferably orange. I suppose they can't be to blame. So ingrained is the signature hue of Kraft on the consciousness of our culture that Crayola introduced "macaroni and cheese" as a color. However, if the annoying bunny on another boxed brand has anything to say about it, a white mac and cheese crayon is on the horizon. Created by the same Napa-based company that brought us "Smartfood" popcorn, "Annie's Homegrown" hit the shelves in 1989 and since that time has managed to give Kraft an organically driven run for its money.

The boxed set aside, menus at high-end restaurants today reveal that the cheesiest labor of love is back and this time it's ready for its close-up. There's no variation of fromage that's beyond its reach and no starring ingredient too exotic. But whether it's served simple and rustic or jazzed out with truffles and caviar, one thing's for sure-it remains the ultimate comfort food.

The reemergence of good old mac and cheese is more than likely just a sign of the times and a fitting one at that. My thought is that there's no better way for our country to enjoy a much needed group hug.

I THREE CHEESE MAC This is sure to show your love for those deemed worthy-
+ 9 tablespoons unsalted butter
+ 1 pound Cavatelli
+ 1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons flour
+ 1 quart whole milk
+ 2 teaspoons dry mustard
+ 1/8 teaspoon cayenne pepper
+ Dash of Tabasco
+ 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
+ Salt and pepper, to taste
+ 2 cups grated aged Asiago
+ 1 cup grated sharp white Cheddar
+ 1 1/3 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
+ 1/2 cup chopped cilantro
+ 1/3 cup minced chives
+ 1 cup Panko breadcrumbs

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cook pasta until al dente in a large pot of salted, boiling water over high heat; drain and leave to cool. Mix 1/3 cup of Parmigiano- Reggiano with the breadcrumbs and set aside. Butter 6 individual gratin dishes or one large casserole dish using 2 tablespoons butter. In a large saucepan, over moderately low heat, melt 6 tablespoons butter; add flour and cook, stirring, 3 minutes. Whisk in milk and raise heat to high. When milk begins to boil, reduce heat to medium and cook, stirring occasionally, until thickened (be careful not to let mixture stick to pan). Remove from heat and add mustard, cayenne, Tabasco, Worcestershire, salt and pepper. Add all cheeses and stir until melted; add herbs. Return pasta to the pot it was boiled in, pour sauce over and combine. Fill gratin dishes (or casserole) and sprinkle with breadcrumbs. Dot lightly with remaining tablespoon butter and bake on the middle rack until the crumbs are lightly browned and the sauce is bubbling, about 30 minutes. Serves 6.