Seasons change. They always do. And so summer slips into fall, sometimes almost imperceptibly. So how do you know? Many feel fall arrives on Labor Day. For others, it’s the start of college football. The weather folk go with the Autumnal Equinox in late September. Still others only feel it has begun when the leaves change colors and give the season its name: Fall.
It’s different at my house. If I never looked at a calendar or out of a window or even heard another weather forecast, I would still know when fall tells summer to hit the bricks. At my house, it has nothing to do with the Earth’s dance around the sun or trees creating clutter in my driveway. At my house, fall arrives when comfort food hits the table.
When the chill hits the air, the chili hits the table. I’m all about summer. Sunny warm days on the lake hanging onto the ski handle and kicking up spray. Burgers on the grill and supper on the patio, that’s how I like to roll. But my wife is an autumn girl. “Soft fuzzy sweaters, too magical to touch,” as the song says. Hiking boots and a down vest with comfort food waiting after a stroll in the brisk air and golden sun that is the signature of the season.
I’m not complaining. She’s an excellent cook and makes excellent mac-n-cheese. How good is it? It is so deliciously rich and comforting that it is like a hug you can swallow. Who wouldn’t want that? I dream that one day she will make it in a bed-sized casserole dish. That way I can lie down in in it, pulling the cheesy crust up like covers and tuck them just under my chin. Give me a giant loaf of sourdough bread for a pillow and wake me when spring arrives. I’d be the envy of every hibernating bear in the Chattahoochee Forest and most of the human population. Comfort defined.
Growing up, mom made it from scratch as well. But during college I didn’t have the benefit of a kitchen or cash. All I could afford was the generic mac-n-cheese from Warehouse Groceries—the five-for-a-buck kind—made on an illegal hotplate. Living off the land at its finest.
The cardboard comfort food was a staple when the children were young. Oh, we tried to give them culture. Believe me we tried. But, it was rejected as is often the case. My daughter and son were probably 11 and nine respectively when Kate whipped up a big dish of that cheesy decadence.
“What’s this?” came the question punctuated by upturned noses.
“It’s mac-n-cheese,” she replied.
“No, it’s not,” and they refused to eat it. Cool by me. Baffled, but not disappointed since it meant more for us. There’s always room for more mac-n-cheese.
Time is the river that wears and shapes people and their attitudes. Such is the case with their opinion of homemade versus the blue box. Now, for them, it is the real deal or no deal when it comes to that macaroni masterpiece. We noticed this shift in our son in a rather pricey way.
One weekend early in his college career, he came home for the weekend. It was a rare thing given that he worked as a line cook at a restaurant and usually had weekend shifts. Before returning to school, he went with my wife to the grocery store so we could restock his pantry.
When top quality cheeses and heavy cream started to populate the cart, my wife asked what he was planning.
“I’m going to make mac-n-cheese. This is how we make it at the restaurant.”
Just like that, the tide had changed, sweeping my wife’s wallet clean. You have to watch those cash register rip currents.
Growing up, the beverage choices on the dinner table marked the changing seasons. The arrival of sweet tea signaled summer’s start. I specify “sweet” tea for those who weren’t raised in the South. Down here, when you say “tea,” it’s a given that it will have ice and sugar just as the Lord intended. When summer left, so did the tea. It was replaced by milk for my brother and me and coffee for my folks.
There are other seasonal indicators of the arrival of fall. As I mentioned earlier, chili is usually the first to show up. It’s served up with a generous portion of tortilla chips. I park the spoon and use the chips to shovel the comfort into my mouth. When the chips are down, I go for the spoon. Not sure, but I think that’s where that saying originated. Later there will be stews, soups, and roasts. Spareribs are a particular favorite. The further we get into the season, heavier—I mean the more comforting—the food becomes.
While comfort food is my wife’s way of letting me know her favorite season has arrived, I let her know when the holiday season is upon us with a batch of molasses cookies. But that’s another story for another season.
