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Mac and cheese

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When it’s cold and gloomy outside, you might be craving comfort food. I would’ve never thought of having macaroni cheese, but few days of cold weather and early mornings at work and there I was. Comforting myself with children food.


macaroni cheese

 Macaroni cheese

 2 -3 cups of pasta (small)

2 knobs of butter

milk (about half a cup)

3-4 spoons of flour


pinch of salt

100 grams of vegetarian cheddar

100 grams of vegetarian parmesan



1. Boil water for pasta.

2. When your pasta is cooking, make your sauce (like bechamel) – melt butter in a pan, add flour and mix carefully on the low heat, then pour milk gradually, whisking. Try not to leave any lumps. Add pinch of salt and as much nutmeg as you like (spoon or two for my liking).

3. Drain pasta and grate parmesan and cheddar. Mix cheese, sauce and pasta (if you feel cordon bleu, add any veg you fancy or fresh herbs or go crazy and add some nuts). Add chunks of mozzarella to it.

4. Butter ovenproof dish, sprinkle some breadcrumbs and transfer your macaroni mixture into it. sprinkle more cheese on top and more breadcrums.

5.Bake in the oven until golden.


About potatofaces

People who cook always go on about precious memories of childhood food one of their family members cooked, how daddy or nanny taught them the importance of cooking and eating together, and they still remember the comfort food they produced, amazing dishes whipped up by brilliant but humble cooks in their family. Well, let me tell you, it was totally different in my family. My mother’s family – totally useless as cooks, who could survive on bread and butter, cooked once a week a terrible, terrible meal, usually some kind of meat piece with lots of brown sauce. Also, they were never bothered about eating together. That’s maybe why most of them were depressed and suicidal. My mother followed that path and couldn’t really cook, and because I never wanted to eat meat, was warning me that ‘one day I will regret it’. Probably because my mother wasn’t into cooking my sister at the age of 12 took over and started producing amazing dinners and cakes. Well, luckily for me and her we weren’t that genetically doomed because apparently my father’s family were gifted in that compartment. I can only presume it was genes, as my father divorced my mother when my sis and me were little and he strongly believed that he also divorced us. So, we were growing up never having any contact with him and as a result, couldn’t learn how to cook from him. That’s why I believe the love of cooking ( and the ability) was just passed to us genetically. My father, short time before he died, unexpectedly felt an urge to contact us. First he gave my sister a mandolin (that’s another thing I know about him- he played a few instruments). My sister refused to talk to him, he then decided to contact me and wanted to spend some time with me. I didn’t want to, as he was a stranger to me (I was 11 or 12 at the time) but as I was promised I could leave whenever I wanted to, I went to the village he lived in. There I tried his mother’s cooking everyone was raving about. It was simple and amazing, I wish they were as family dedicated as they were at baking, cooking, making pastries, wine, tinctures, you name it. But I ate, drunk, and got bored of strangers who were my family and demanded to be let to go home. One of the last things my father said to me was that I should start learning English because I might need it one day, which I ignored for another 16 years… Because my sister was such a domestic goddess I wasn’t really bothered about cooking. I got hooked properly after my son was born and I wanted him to eat healthy and get everything he needed, especially that it wasn’t his choice to be a vegetarian (yet). And that is how the story begins…

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