Pure Comfort

I'm not sure why someone like me, one of the lucky and privileged few, should need comfort, but every now and then I do.

Sometimes, I'm missing my Dad, even 15 years after his death. Sometimes, I'm wishing for a visit from a dear friend. Other times, although I adore our lovely dog, I wish I had a cat, for that special kind of quiet love only a purring cat can provide. When I feel like that, I make mac and cheese. From scratch, using really good ingredients.

Sure, I could get mac and cheese, much faster, out of a box, but it wouldn't be the same, not even the organic versions. I could also use other noodles than elbows, but that wouldn't fit my mental picture of mac and cheese. There's something comforting, not only in the eating of mac and cheese but also in the making of it. It's simple, straightforward and nearly mistake proof.

I'm careful to cook the macaroni just to al dente stage, not letting it get mushy. I also add chopped onion, sautéeing the onion in butter before adding the flour. I make the white sauce with real butter, all purpose flour and fresh milk (or, sometimes, half-and-half), letting the flour cook to a toasty flavor before adding the milk. This time, I had on hand three kinds of cheese, a smoky gouda, a small block of cheddar and a hunk of taleggio. None of them was, or should be, orange. I cut them into smallish pieces before adding them to the white sauce and stirring over low heat until they all meld together, then pour in the cooked and drained elbow macaroni and mix until every little curl is well coated with cheesy, oniony goodness.

The final step is the hardest part - postponing the satisfaction. You must wait until the mixture cools and rests for at least an hour, and preferably overnight. When you're hungry for comfort, it's difficult to do.

But then, when you reheat gently, everything has combined and strengthened into a deeply cheesy, unctuous whole, as if all the flavors had regrouped during the rest, found reinforcements, and come barreling back. At this point, you could add garlic crumbs to the top and bake but often, by then, I don't want to wait any longer; I get a fork and dive in.

Pure comfort.

Mac 'n Cheese

The cheese was still sizzling briskly when it arrived at the table.

My Beloved, pal Sari and I were at the Fremont Diner in Sonoma for brunch recently, all three of us ravenous. We had driven up through the brown-gold velvet hills of northern Marin County and into the stubbornly agricultural Sonoma County, thanking heaven along the way for the Sonoman's reluctance to widen their roads and invite the hoards that inevitably follow in such gorgeous places. The scenery was lovely, bucolic and peaceful as we wound along the two-lane roads. We arrived at the Fremont Diner to find a long line out the door and every table filled.

It was a cheerful crowd, however, passing menus up and down the line so we'd all be ready to order as soon as we stepped up to the window. There were a few "me first" folks who sent one of their party to snag a table before ordering (a breach of good manners in this casual place), but most people were philosophical and all were rewarded by an open table once they had made their orders.

We love the food at the Fremont Diner but it's obvious that their popularity has outpaced their ability to serve in a timely manner. We waited fully 45 minutes after placing our orders for Sari's brisket hash, My Beloved's chicken and waffles and my Mac 'n Cheese to arrive. We could see into the tiny kitchen from our table so we knew they were making a Herculean effort on a busy Sunday morning. We did have our drinks as we waited and when we are together we have no trouble finding lots to chat about, but it seemed like a very long time to three hollow folks.

Which is why, even though I had my camera at the ready, I completely forgot to photograph my Mac 'n Cheese when it arrived bubbling under its glorious, golden-brown buttery crumb topping that matched almost exactly the color of the surrounding hills. When the food arrived, we just dove in with silent intensity. It was only as the level of macaroni was well down in my black iron pan that I remembered that I'm a blogger and that photos enhance my stories.

It was worth the wait. The crisp topping was a delightful counterpoint to the creamy casserole, there was plenty of tasty cheese and the little pan was fully 6 inches across, such a hearty portion that My Beloved had to help me finish it. He reports that his chicken and waffles were perfectly cooked and a happy balance between juicy chicken and crispy coating, with a substantial flour waffle served hot with butter and genuine maple syrup. Sari's brisket hash with a bright-yolked egg on top was downright unctuous and sparked with pepper. We all went away deeply satisfied with our brunch and ready to explore Glen Ellen before heading home along those lovely, quiet roads.

Did you know that M.F.K. Fisher used to live and party in tiny Glen Ellen?

Bulldog, Bulldog, Bow Wow Wow!

While we were visiting My Beloved's 93 year old mother in a hospital in New Haven, CT (you'll be glad to hear she's out now!), we stayed nearby in a quaint and funny old hotel and took his sister's recommendation to eat at Claire's Corner Copia (no, not a misspelling on my part). Claire's is a New Haven institution that began serving hearty vegetarian food to Yale students and faculty back in 1975.

Not only do they make delicious vegetarian dishes from sustainable, organic ingredients, they have always supported artists, musicians and various progressive causes as well. We enjoyed the funky atmosphere and a gargantuan dinner of mushroom risotto, savory shepherd's pie (with soy crumbles instead of lamb, the only time in my life that I've actually enjoyed soy crumbles) and the richest, creamiest, gooiest mac and cheese I've ever tasted. Had we had any idea of the size of the portions, we'd have only ordered one dish to share - the mac and cheese alone would have fed an army of hungry Yalies.

I dated a Yale student once and visited New Haven before even Claire's Corner Copia was begun, learned the Yale fight song and got a kick out of their silly marching band at the Yale-Harvard game that year. The band members dressed in Navy blue blazers, shirts and ties, with gray flannel pants and loafers, and took pride in not keeping straight lines - the "Y" they formed at the end of their halftime routine had a rather squiggly tail. In the bleachers, an enthusiastic alumnus passed me his hip flask and, thinking it was water to wet our cheers, I took a big swig - my first vodka, neat. Coughing and choking, eyes streaming, while the alum and the Yalie patted me gingerly on the back. The Yalie was a nice guy, nicer than I deserved, really, but he didn't stand a chance when My Beloved showed up later that winter; I hadn't been back to New Haven since I dumped him.

If you go, don't miss Claire's Corner Copia nor the mac and cheese. Maybe you'll find your own Yale student there, studying over a big plate of shepherd's pie.