There are times, now and again, when a really nasty batch of Macaroni and Cheese comes along. We've all experienced it.

I was at my parents' house (soon it will probably be called just "Mom's house"...),killing time before 11:00 when I'd give Gabi (a girl in my ward) a ride to the bus. I printed off my homework, played the piano, made some popcorn. As I was popping the corn, I had the urge to make some cheese popcorn, because all I've been making is sweet.

I looked high and low for the cheese powder I swear we had once bought. What I did find was a box of mac&cheese that, since I hadn't had any in a really long time, interested me. It was in the pantry. This cupboard, though right in the kitchen, is a completely neglected host of perishing items.

First ignored clue: the box of mac&cheese was in the dark back of the pantry shelf, behind opened cake mix boxes and last (or even earlier) Christmas cookie kits (the kind well-intentioned creative people give in cutesy fabric bags with poems attached). Second ignored clue: the top of the box had a layer of dust that neither blew nor wiped away.

Finally, 11:00 came and I drove Gabi to her bus stop, the aforementioned box tossed in the back seat. I got home and showered and stuff before I decided I wanted to make the mac&cheese today for lunch. I let the noodles cook too long since I was doing my hair. I hate when the noodles are mushy. I dumped them in a strainer and searched for butter and milk. First ignored divine intervention alert: there was no butter. Second: no milk.

First smart idea: I said to myself, during my fruitless search, "Oh, I should just eat my Papa John's left overs."

First and second unsmart ideas: I put a tablespoon of oil in the pot. Then I used a milk box (like a juice box, but filled with milk. . .well, vanilla-flavored rice milk), to act as the needed milk. Come on, my other choices were apple juice or water. Yuck.

I put my nose near to the rip in the little foil cheese bag, but sensed nothing with my half-sniff. I dumped it on the sweaty noodles and stirred. Then it came. First undesirable sense: the smell of rancid powdered milk. Second: the threatening gag reflex.

It's just sitting in that pot until it's cold enough to throw in the trash. I thank God for Papa John's. I literally do.