by Karis Rogerson

Kraft Dinner macaroni and cheese was the height of cuisine to my childish mind: the teeny tiny pasta pieces that are nearly impossible to stab with a fork, the powdered cheese that mixes perfectly with milk and butter to make a scrumptious sauce and the pure, unadulterated plasticity of it all. I was obsessed.

I was the world’s greatest Kraft Dinner evangelist. I told everyone about my passion for the food, eyes alight and cheeks glowing with excitement.

Some family friends visited us when I was in middle school. Of course, I told these people about my love. A few weeks after they left, we received in the mail a ten-pound box filled with powdered cheese. You read that right. Ten. Pounds. Of. Powdered. Cheese. Wow, my mouth is watering just thinking about it now. . .

These family friends had gone shopping in Amish territory and thought, so kindly, to pick up some cheese so we could make my Mac and Cheese without needing the boxes. And they accidentally bought it in bulk. In large bulk.

We just finished up the last of that cheese two years ago, as I was halfway through my final year of college. We used it for Mac and Cheese, we used it on popcorn, we found every creative use for it, and still, it lingered forever and ever. It never lost its deliciousness, though.

The irony of this, of the Amish-bulk American powdered cheese, is that I grew up in Italy. Land of gelato, creamy yet icy and perfect even in the dead of winter, of pasta with panna and salsiccia, which my mom still makes for me when I go home, filling the kitchen with the sizzle of sausage and the distinct scent of cooking cream, of melanzana parmigiana, rich and tomatoey and cheesy and more decadent than chocolate cake, of pizza margherita, the plainest of Italian pizza that’s still miles above Papa John’s.

Italy is literally the land of delicious food. There was never a shortage in my growing up household of yummy meals and stomach-happy-making dishes.

But I wanted Kraft Dinner. Always. I craved it. I craved the cheap American box dinner like a crack addict craves — well, crack.

People in America eagerly asked me what my favorite food was, expecting me to rattle off the name of some exotic dish they could go home and try to cook.

“Kraft Dinner!” I answered, all proud. My parents would laugh and shrug, as though to say, “Well, what can we do? She wants what she wants.”

Is there anything more thoroughly American than taking a dish that originated in another country, and changing it so much through powdered cheese and copious amounts of butter, that natives of the original land would not recognize it? Is there anything more American than craving America while surrounded by foreign culture?

I sure hoped not. I wanted to be the epitome of American-ness. I wanted to look American, sound American, even smell American. I wanted to be American. I dreamed of leaving Italy and never returning, of living out the rest of my life in some suburban house with a white-picket fence, 19 children and my husband, Harold the Doctor. That was my American dream.

Is it ironic, then, that at 22 I moved to New York City because it’s the only American city that doesn’t feel American? Is it ironic that suburbia makes my body shudder and my nerves shut down? Is it ironic that my American dream now involves living in a multicultural city, pursuing a job that pokes holes in everything, and traveling?

Yes. Just as ironic as it was that I lived in Italy and wanted nothing more than to eat mac and cheese.

People always react with such excitement when I tell them that I grew up in Italy. Their eyes widen, their mouths split into grins, and the words, “You’re so lucky!” or “How exciting!” spill out of their mouths.

But until I moved to Kentucky for college, I hated that. I didn’t think I was lucky, and I definitely didn’t think my life was exciting. I counted down the days until I could be back in the States and was eternally jealous of my friends who got to stay in South Carolina permanently.

I hated the Italian public schools where the teachers yelled and threw books at students’ heads. I hated going to church where the congregations were small and the floors uncarpeted. I hated having to walk everywhere, having to speak Italian, not having fast food, English books and American movies readily available.

I shudder just writing those words, wishing I could take them back and make them untrue. I wish I could say I grew up appreciating the richness of the culture I lived in, that I knew from a young age what my existence as a foreigner would add to my character, that I never dreamed of being anywhere but Italy, where I was lucky — nay, #blessed — to live.

Because these days, even some nights as I lie in my New York bed, I cry because the pain of missing it is so sharp. I miss evening walks along the Canal. I miss the way Italian rolls off my tongue and makes me feel beautiful. I miss the apartment with the orange walls overlooking the dingy streets. I miss the smell of cat urine filling everything. I miss the way the lights look reflecting on the Adriatic Sea, and the way the air fills with the snappy sounds of Italian voices.

I miss the two girls who have been my best friends since middle school. I miss the freedom of childhood.

I miss it all.

I rarely eat Kraft Mac and Cheese anymore, but recently I bought a few boxes at the local grocery store and stuffed my face. It was still delicious, but it was light and fluffy and not satisfying. It’s not what I want anymore.

These days, I crave melanzana parmigiana, pollo al limone, gelato alla Nutella, and pasta with panna and salsiccia.

I crave everything that reminds me of my Italian childhood and of course food, being a huge part of my life and of Italian culture, figures into that.

Kraft Dinner is no longer my favorite food. Kraft Dinner is a remnant of my childhood and just like when I was young, I wish I were somewhere I’m not.

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Karis Rogerson is an American/Canadian who was raised in Italy and schooled in Germany and Kentucky before moving to New York City to pursue her master’s in journalism. Currently, she works as a pizza-slinger on the Upper East Side, reads tons of young adult novels and writes and blogs. Someday, she hopes you’ll read her novels. You can find more information at www.karisrogerson.com

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Karis Rogerson is an American/Canadian who was raised in Italy and schooled in Germany and Kentucky before moving to New York City to pursue her master’s in journalism. Currently, she works as a pizza-slinger on the Upper East Side, reads tons of young adult novels and writes and blogs. Someday, she hopes you’ll read her novels. You can find more information at www.karisrogerson.comSave

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