My son has a real fondness for the chicken bacon ranch mac and cheese, so I decide that I'm going to make a version of it. I search online for a manageable recipe, one that won't take an hour or more to prep, and come across one that has both ranch dressing and alfredo sauce.
Here's where I have to be completely honest. Yesterday I claimed that my cooking never turns out the way everyone else's does. Well ... this may be because I don't always follow the recipe to the letter. Sometimes I do (baking is an exact chemical science -- one shouldn't putz around with baking powder if one expects perfect desserts). I don't mind altering a stir fry recipe (it asks for water, I add wine; if it suggests broth, I add teriyaki sauce; if it recommends one onion, I use one and a half).
I get nervous if the recipe calls for an unusually tiny amount or ridiculously excessive amount of anything, especially liquid ingredients. For example, to prevent my broccoli cheddar soup from scorching, I always double the water content; to make better granola bars, I double the mini-chocolate chips from a half cup to a whole one; a perfect Mimosa requires less juice and more champagne.
So, I read through the recipe for chicken bacon ranch mac and cheese. Seems simple enough, except it seems like an awful lot of alfredo sauce (1.5 jars). It also calls for twelve ounces of shells, but the box is sixteen ounces. I'm okay with the whole pepper and the whole onion, but there is no amount on the chicken. No problem -- I buy a pre-roasted chicken freshly hot from the deli and pick all of the meat off of it. That should work.
A pound of bacon means that I have to take it home, cook it, then crumble it all up. I cheat. I buy the real bacon bits in a bag. Is my time worth an extra buck or two? Damn straight. I get it all mixed, knock off the extra half jar of alfredo, cover everything in extra mozzarella and cheddar cheese (and, of course, more bacon), and throw it into the oven. The batch is huge, enough to feed us and the families who live on either side of us. In fifteen minutes, I will pass or fail in the dinner race.
I am pleased to announce that we have success! A perfect dinner! I add some barbecue sauce to mine, and life is complete. I'm still a bit of a Tasmanian devil in the kitchen, but somehow everything comes out right tonight. Nothing gets set on fire, nothing burns, and nothing explodes except our bloated stomachs because not only is dinner delicious, it's damn addicting, too.
