Simple Supper
My mother made mac-n-cheese
without any showy breadcrumbs.
It was simple—boiled pasta
and Velveeta cubed with a paring knife.
I loved to stir the pot,
watch those pale orange chunks
melt to a glossy sheen.
A little margarine made it rich, which
is something we were not.
For a little kick, she threw in a few pinches
of black pepper,
gray powder from a grocery store tin,
none of that snooty
freshly-ground stuff. I once used
a baking dish and panko,
as though I could do it better. A friend
tells me they like diced shallots
in theirs, and paprika. All I want
is that old aluminum pot
on an electric stove’s glowing coil,
and the past coming up to a boil.
*
David B. Prather is the author of three poetry collections: We Were Birds (Main Street Rag, 2019), Shouting at an Empty House (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2023), and Bending Light with Bare Hands (Fernwood Press, 2025). His work has appeared in many publications, including New Ohio Review, Prairie Schooner, Poet Lore, The Comstock Review, etc. He lives in Parkersburg, WV. Website: www.davidbprather.com
Kraft Mac n Cheese, late nights after bars closed. Comfort food now, in more sobering times.
Beautifully expressed.
I love this poem and the delicious memories it conjures! In my mother’s version, it was served with broccoli — the one sure way to get us to eat our vegetables! Thanks so much for this tender and lovely feast!