Easy Mostaccioli

Mother's Day and Destiny's graduation week. Both in the same seven days, which is either the universe being efficient or God having a sense of arrangement. Destiny walks on Thursday—UAB's social work commencement—and then Mother's Day is Sunday, and the whole week has a quality of crescendo, of something building toward something that will then need to settle.

Destiny's graduation day: Calvin and I drove to Birmingham in the morning. It rained—an Alabama May rain, dramatic and brief, the kind that rolls in black and releases everything it has and then moves on, leaving the air washed and the afternoon brilliant. The ceremony was under cover. Destiny found us in the crowd after and she was in her cap and gown and she was crying and laughing simultaneously, and I held her and she said, "Mama, I did it," and I said, "Baby, you did it from the day you decided to," which is true. Destiny finished things. She always finished what she started. I raised a finisher.

I made Sunday dinner the way she asked—all of it, the full spread, fried chicken and collard greens and mac and cheese and cornbread and sweet potato pie. CJ drove down from Huntsville. Doris came from Hoover. James drove from Montgomery because James does not miss a Simms graduation dinner and will tell you so if you suggest he might. The house was full. Destiny sat at the table in her Sunday dress with a social work degree and the particular expression of someone who has accomplished the next step of becoming who they are, and I set Marcus's candle and we said grace and Calvin named Marcus in it—named him, as he always does, with love and without apology—and we ate.

Destiny said, "I want to make the mac and cheese. I want to make it today." So I let her. She made it from the chair next to the stove, asking questions she already knew the answers to, checking with me at each step, not because she was uncertain but because she wanted the conversation, the hand-to-hand passing of knowledge, the ceremony of standing beside. The cheese pulled in long strings. It was right. "More cheese," I said, because Marcus always said more cheese, because some things deserve to be said every time.

There was no mac and cheese recipe written down anywhere in our house — it lived in my hands and in the conversation between me and whoever was standing close enough to learn it — but after Destiny made it that Sunday, I wanted something I could set beside it on the table, something baked and cheesy and built for a crowd, something that carries that same quality of abundance. Easy Mostaccioli is that dish for me: pasta pulled together with meat and sauce and cheese melted all the way through, the kind of thing you set in the center of a full table and it disappears, which is exactly what happened.

Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 45 minutes | Total Time: 1 hour | Servings: 8

Ingredients

1 lb mostaccioli or penne pasta
1 lb ground beef (80/20)
1 medium yellow onion, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 jar (24 oz) marinara or tomato pasta sauce
1 can (14.5 oz) diced tomatoes, drained
1 tsp dried Italian seasoning
1/2 tsp salt
1/4 tsp black pepper
1/4 tsp red pepper flakes (optional)
2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese, divided
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese, divided
1/2 cup ricotta cheese (optional, for creaminess)

Instructions

Preheat and prep. Preheat your oven to 375°F. Grease a 9x13-inch baking dish and set aside.
Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook mostaccioli according to package directions until just al dente, about 1 minute less than the package calls for. Drain and set aside.
Brown the meat. In a large skillet over medium-high heat, cook the ground beef, breaking it apart, until no pink remains, about 6–8 minutes. Drain excess fat.
Build the sauce. Add the diced onion to the skillet with the beef and cook until softened, about 4 minutes. Add the garlic and cook 1 minute more. Stir in the marinara sauce, diced tomatoes, Italian seasoning, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes if using. Simmer on low for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Combine. Remove the skillet from heat. Add the drained pasta to the sauce and stir to coat everything evenly. If using ricotta, fold it in here.
Layer the dish. Spread half the pasta mixture into the prepared baking dish. Sprinkle with 1 cup of the mozzarella and 1/4 cup of the Parmesan. Add the remaining pasta mixture on top.
Top with cheese. Scatter the remaining 1 cup mozzarella and 1/4 cup Parmesan evenly over the top. Press gently so the cheese settles into the pasta.
Bake. Cover the dish tightly with foil and bake for 25 minutes. Remove the foil and bake an additional 15–20 minutes until the cheese is bubbling and golden in spots.
Rest and serve. Let the mostaccioli rest for 5 minutes before serving. The cheese will pull in long strings when you scoop it — that’s how you know it’s right.

Nutrition (per serving)

Easy Mostaccioli — The Cheese Pulls Long and the Table Is Full