Pesto Mac and Cheese

Something happened this week that I need to write about, even though it's not about food or fire. Jessica's grandfather — Diane's father, a man named Harold — died in Duluth at ninety-one. Jessica got the call on Tuesday morning. She was at work, holding Diego in one arm (she'd brought him to the office for a meeting because the childcare fell through), and her mother called and said "Dad passed this morning." Jessica called me from the parking lot. She wasn't crying — not yet — she was in that shock state where the information hasn't reached the body yet.

Harold was a quiet man. A fisherman. A Korean War veteran who never talked about the war and always talked about the fish. I met him five times: our wedding, two Christmases in Duluth, and two visits to Phoenix. He called me "the cook" and he meant it with affection, even though his idea of cooking was pan-fried walleye and boiled potatoes, which is the Minnesotan culinary tradition in its purest form. The last time I saw him, Christmas 2016, he was ninety and slow but present. He ate my smoked turkey and said "not bad for a desert boy." I took it as the highest compliment a Johansson man could offer.

Jessica flew to Duluth with Diego for the funeral. I stayed with Sofia — I couldn't get the shifts covered on short notice, and someone had to be here. Putting Jessica on a plane with a two-month-old baby was one of the harder things I've done. She held Diego against her chest and looked at me at the gate and said "I'll be back Sunday" and I said "I know" and she walked down the jetway and I stood at the window and watched the plane leave and felt the specific loneliness of being the one who stays.

It was a long week. Just me and Sofia, who is three and requires constant supervision, entertainment, and the specific kind of attention that only a parent can provide. I cooked for her every meal — simple things, kid things. Mac and cheese (homemade, because I have standards). Quesadillas. Scrambled eggs with cheese. Pancakes in the morning, grilled cheese at lunch, pasta at dinner. She ate what she ate and ignored what she ignored and at bedtime she said "where's Mama?" and I said "Mama's coming home soon" and she said "where's Diego?" and I said "with Mama" and she said "okay" and fell asleep, and the house was so quiet I could hear the AC cycling and nothing else.

Jessica came home Sunday with Diego and red eyes and her grandfather's fishing hat, which Harold had worn every day of his retirement and which Diane had given to Jessica because "he'd want the cook's wife to have it." It sits on a hook in our hallway now, next to my fire helmet. Two hats. Two lives. Two men who showed up.

That week with Sofia, mac and cheese was the anchor. I made it three times in five days — twice the straight-ahead version, once with pesto stirred in because I found half a jar in the back of the fridge and needed to feel like I was still a person who cooked with intention, not just survival. Sofia ate it without complaint, which from a three-year-old is a standing ovation. This is that version — the one with pesto — because grief doesn’t mean you stop trying to make something good.

Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 25 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 6

Ingredients

1 pound elbow macaroni or cavatappi pasta
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 1/2 cups whole milk
2 cups shredded sharp cheddar cheese
1 cup shredded mozzarella cheese
1/3 cup prepared basil pesto
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
1/2 teaspoon salt, or to taste
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
1/4 cup panko breadcrumbs (optional, for topping)
1 tablespoon olive oil (optional, for topping)

Instructions

Cook the pasta. Bring a large pot of salted water to a boil. Cook the pasta according to package directions until just al dente. Drain and set aside.
Make the roux. In the same pot over medium heat, melt the butter. Whisk in the flour and cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly, until it smells nutty and turns pale gold.
Build the sauce. Slowly pour in the milk, whisking continuously to prevent lumps. Cook for 4 to 5 minutes, stirring often, until the sauce thickens enough to coat the back of a spoon.
Melt the cheese. Remove the pot from heat. Stir in the cheddar and mozzarella a handful at a time, stirring until each addition is fully melted and smooth.
Add the pesto. Stir the pesto into the cheese sauce until evenly combined. Add the garlic powder, salt, and pepper. Taste and adjust seasoning.
Combine. Add the cooked pasta back to the pot and fold everything together until the noodles are evenly coated.
Optional crispy top. Transfer to a baking dish. Toss the panko with olive oil and scatter over the top. Broil on high for 2 to 3 minutes, watching carefully, until golden brown.
Serve. Let it rest for 5 minutes before scooping. It thickens as it sits.

Nutrition (per serving)

Pesto Mac and Cheese — The Week It Was Just Us Two