Now I’m a simple guy, I don’t expect artisanal mac and cheese with fresh gruyére, whisked with Comté and paired with a Cabernet Sauvignon.
While I can bring myself to the level of boxed mac and cheese, what I can’t abide is sitting down to a lukewarm pile of radioactive orange mush.
When I open up a box of Annie’s I know I’m getting a cheese sauce with a light, creamy consistency on top of a bed of robust yet tender shells.
If I suffered a stroke in the pasta aisle and picked up a box of Kraft I would only end up forcing down soggy noodles with the consistency of Papier-mâché covered in a cheese sauce that’s more watered down than a frat boy’s Busch Ice.
As an adult that knows how to operate a stove, the idea of nuking a box of Stouffer’s and playing minefield with mac and cheese that alternates between lukewarm and the surface of the sun sounds like spraying a water gun filled with napalm in my face for kicks.
By every standard Annie’s blows away the store bought competition. Don’t even bring up Velveeta. That slimy, viscous cheese makes it feel like some insect vomited on the lumpy mess of noodles to render it digestible.
If you enjoy any other supermarket mac and cheese I would slap the taste out of your mouth if I wouldn’t be doing you a favor.
My only complaint would be the slightly unsavory notion of dumping your mac from the nether regions of a cute white rabbit as the box seems to suggest.
What you do get in a box of Annie’s Mac and Cheese is a delicious, organic treat from a company that uses its proceeds to fund school garden programs and agricultural scholarships.
Annie’s may not be fresh out of the oven, baked with love and plenty of heavy whipping cream but if you’re looking to sit down after a long day and just eat some hastily prepared food in front of a TV screen, you can do much worse for around $3.
Sammy Hanf is a junior journalism major from Greensboro, North Carolina.