Dinner of Champions (and Extremely Tired Aunts)

One of my favorite meals growing up was a culinary Frankenstein: macaroni and cheese topped with hot dogs and beans. Straight out of a box and a can, and yet—to kid-me—it was gourmet. My aunt made it often, probably because it was cheap, fast, and could feed a small stampede of children with minimal complaints (well… fewer complaints).

Family dinners around this dish were pure chaos, and honestly, that was the best part. Eating with family is criminally underrated—you get to laugh, talk trash, and sometimes defend your plate like you’re on Survivor: Macaroni Edition. My aunt had three kids. I ate like I was three kids. So basically, she was feeding a small battalion. I was like a cuckoo bird in someone else’s nest—except instead of pushing chicks out, I was just aggressively reaching for seconds.

I’d burn the roof of my mouth constantly because patience wasn’t an option when cheesy carbs were on the line. Turns out, though, I didn’t even need to fight that hard—my cousins were picky eaters. One of them always had something to say: “Too cheesy.” “Too beany.” “Why is there a hot dog in this?”—as if they were dining at a Michelin-star restaurant. It was music to my ears though because I got their portion.

But as I got older and my taste buds evolved beyond “processed cheese = good,” I realized it wasn’t the flavor that made that dish special. It was the memory—the warmth of family, the chaos, the comfort. That secret ingredient of nostalgia? It seasons food better than salt.

So I decided to recreate it. But this time, from scratch. Real cheese. Real beans. Hot dogs that didn’t bounce when you dropped them. And you could taste the love—and the smug adult pride—in every bite.

Was it exactly like my childhood favorite? No. It was better. It honored the memory, ditched the metallic undertones of canned sadness, and finally gave that chaotic little comfort dish the respect it deserves.