Chapter - 01
Rumble~ Rumble~
"Ugh... I really need to eat something," I groaned as my stomach twisted uncomfortably. It had long since passed the polite stage of requesting food and was now issuing not-so-subtle threats of mutiny if I didn't obey soon.
I couldn't blame it though. Rubbing my tired eyes, I blinked at the corner of my computer screen, where the time glowed mockingly: 5:00 p.m. on a Sunday. Skipped breakfast? Check. Skipped lunch? Double-check. I guess that meant it was time to finally drag myself to the kitchen and conjure up something edible before my stomach made good on its threats.
Stretching until I felt a satisfying crack in my back, I let out a yawn that lasted longer than expected and scratched through my long brown hair as I shuffled out of my room. My apartment was small, just a one-bedroom, but for someone like me—a perpetually lazy bachelor—it was more than enough space. Honestly, half the time it felt like I only occupied the bed and the computer chair, both located in the same room.
I made my way into the kitchen and opened the fridge, hopeful but realistic. A quick scan revealed exactly what I feared: no fresh meat, no leftovers, not even a sad container of beans. Slim pickings. Still, I had a backup plan for situations like this. A failsafe. One that had carried me through college, and even longer.
Opening the cupboard, I pulled out a box of macaroni. Mac n' cheese— the ultimate fallback. A simple, glorious reminder of survival. My mom always said, "If all else fails, mac n' cheese will save the day," and I lived by those words.
I set to work, boiling water in my only semi-trustworthy pot while measuring out the dry macaroni. I glanced at my phone to pass the time, but my mind drifted back to my mom as the macaroni boiled away. She was a single parent, and I knew raising me had been no small feat. Money was tight growing up, but she always had a way of turning everyday meals into something special. Even a basic meal like mac n' cheese— she'd add a personal touch that made it hers.
While the macaroni bubbled, I started on the sauce. Now, here's where the twist came in, courtesy of Mom. Most people would call it blasphemy to mess with a classic mac n' cheese recipe, but not her. "A little experimentation never hurt anyone," she'd say with a wink. And so, I followed her lead.
I grabbed a block of sharp cheddar and started grating it into a bowl. But I didn't stop there. I added in a handful of mozzarella for that gooey stretch and then a sprinkle of parmesan for a little sharpness and bite. But the real kicker was a dash of smoked paprika and a bit of garlic and onion powder. It gave the sauce a kick and a hint of depth that elevated the humble dish from "student meal" to "comfort food royalty."
Once the macaroni was drained, I returned it to the pot and stirred in the butter, watching it melt and coat the macaroni in that familiar, golden shine. I slowly added the cheese mixture, pouring in a bit of milk to smooth it all out into a creamy sauce that wrapped around the pasta like a warm blanket. The paprika and garlic made their presence known, their aromas mingling in the air and making my stomach growl louder. I wasn't winning any culinary awards here, but this mac n' cheese? It was more than edible. It was an old friend, a lifeline.
As I took my first bite, I couldn't help but think back to Mom's experiments in the kitchen. Sure, some of them were disasters (the infamous mustard pancakes came to mind), but most of the time, she hit it out of the park. She always made food more than just sustenance; it was love, warmth, and comfort. It was the reason why even now, I didn't resort to takeout for every meal, even though I could easily afford it.
I worked as a dental assistant. It paid the bills, and I had enough left-over to splurge now and then. The plan is to work hard, save harder, and be done by the time I'm 45. Retire early, enjoy life, maybe travel or start a little side business. I'm 28 now, so I had close to 17 years to reach my goal. I could hear my coworkers laughing at the idea—retire by 45? They barely had enough in their savings for a weekend trip, let alone an early retirement. But they didn't grow up the way I did.
Mom had taught me the value of putting a little bit of yourself into the food you make. It wasn't just about saving money; it was about taking care of yourself in a small but meaningful way. Food wasn't just fuel—it was home, and even when I was by myself, in this small apartment with my lazy tendencies, it was nice to feel that sense of home.
I wolfed down another bite, the creamy, cheesy goodness practically melting in my mouth. It wasn't Mom's mac n' cheese—nothing ever would be—but it was close. It sufficed.
After the plate was cleared and my stomach finally stopped threatening me with bodily harm, I leaned back in my chair, staring out the small window that overlooked the quiet street. The evening sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over everything.
As I sat there, I thought about the next day, about the patients I'd have to deal with at the clinic, and about my long-term plan to retire by 45. But more than anything, I thought about how something as simple as mac n' cheese could connect me to a past that felt so far away, yet always right there in the comfort of a well-worn recipe.
Maybe tomorrow I'd try something new, maybe get groceries and attempt a more "grown-up" dish. But for now, with my belly full and my heart a little warmer, this would do just fine.
"Ah, I wish mom was here to see me right now." The thought slipped out, unbidden, as it often did when I found myself reflecting on how far I'd come. A smile crept across my face, bittersweet and nostalgic. Life had its ups and downs, but right now, I felt good—content, even. Though I hadn't found someone to share my life with yet, something Mom always said was essential for happiness, I didn't feel incomplete. It was a little ironic, given her history with my deadbeat father who had run out on us before I even knew what having a dad meant. Mom had still believed in love, in companionship. I wasn't sure I did, at least not the way she did, but I was content with where I was now. I knew she would've been proud of me.
A familiar lump formed in my throat, and I wiped away the single tear that always followed thoughts of her. It wasn't sadness exactly, just a mix of longing and gratitude. She'd done so much for me, sacrificed more than I probably even knew.