From meatloaf to taco kits, the weeknight icons of the 60s-70s fed a generation, and you can taste the same memory now with plant-based remixes
The other day I pulled my mom’s old recipe box from the back of a cupboard, the tin kind with a faded strawberry on the lid. Inside were yellowed index cards in two familiar handwritings: my mother’s tidy print and my grandmother’s looping cursive.
Between “Company Chicken” and “Salad, 3-bean” sat the real stars of my childhood. Not fancy. Not farm-to-table. Just the weeknight workhorses that fed an entire generation raised on after-school specials, station wagons, and the new thrill of convenience foods. I eat vegan now, but I still smiled at those cards.
They were a map to the American middle-class dinner table in the 60s and 70s, one casserole at a time.
Here are 10 dinners that defined that era, why they mattered, and how I nod to them today without losing my plant-based compass.
1) Meatloaf with mashed potatoes and a ketchup river
If the 60s had a mascot, it might have been a glossy loaf baked in a battered pan. Meatloaf was budgeting magic and comfort in slices. Moms mixed ground beef with breadcrumbs, onion, egg, and a packet of something “French” or “onion” for oomph. It came to the table with mashed potatoes and peas, and the ketchup bottle did more talking than anyone at first bite.
Why it mattered: It stretched a dollar, fed a crowd, and reheated beautifully for meatloaf sandwiches in lunchboxes.
How I honor it now: A vegan lentil-walnut loaf with sautéed onions, a swipe of tangy tomato glaze, and Yukon mash whipped with olive oil. Same ritual, softer footprint.
2) Tuna noodle casserole crowned with chips
Open a can. Open another. Boil noodles. Stir in peas. Fold in a can of cream-of-something. Crown with crushed potato chips or breadcrumbs. Bake until bubbling. Tuna noodle casserole was the one-pan hug of the week, especially when baseball practice ran late and the dishwasher was a teenager.
Why it mattered: It was reliable and forgiving. Even the lumpy versions tasted like “home.”
How I honor it now: A dairy-free mushroom béchamel with elbow macaroni, peas, and flaky jackfruit or chickpeas for the “tuna” stand-in, topped with crushed, oven-crisped potatoes. The sound of the spoon breaking that golden top is memory itself.
3) Sunday pot roast with carrots and potatoes
This was the house perfume of a weekend: savory steam and the faint rattle of a lidded Dutch oven. The secret shortcut often came in a paper packet of onion soup mix. Carrots went soft, potatoes went silky, and the roast turned into a fork tender center that announced Sunday from the driveway.
Why it mattered: It marked time. Sundays were for church, chores, and a meal that said the week could begin again.
How I honor it now: A “pot roast” of meaty mushrooms, parsnips, carrots, and pearl onions, braised with red wine, thyme, and a spoon of miso for depth. Same ladle-over-mash moment. Same sigh of contentment. I am vegan now, but nostalgia still tastes like rosemary and gravy.
4) Spaghetti night with jarred sauce and the green shaker
A red-checkered tablecloth was optional, but garlic bread was not. Spaghetti night meant a jar of Ragu or Prego, a skillet for browning something, and the green can of Parmesan that lived in every fridge like a citizen. A simple salad wore bottled Italian dressing. Everyone had seconds.
Why it mattered: It was fast, festive, and kid-proof. The table got loud in a good way.
How I honor it now: Crushed tomatoes simmered with olive oil, garlic, and a pinch of red pepper. I mound spaghetti with a tumble of basil and a snowfall of almond “parm.” If I am feeling classic, I toast bread with vegan butter and garlic and call it a day.
5) TV dinners on aluminum trays
Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes with a butter crater, corn, and the brownie puck in the top right. The metal tray burned your fingers and the brownie fused to the corner, which somehow made it more precious. TV trays unfolded like ceremony. The show did not start without you.
Why it mattered: It offered novelty, autonomy, and a night when no one had to negotiate sides.
How I honor it now: A make-at-home “TV dinner” night with compartment plates. Mushroom-Salisbury patties, mash, green beans, and a tiny square of sheet-pan brownie. We stream something old and kind. The kid version of me feels seen.
6) Fried chicken with coleslaw and biscuits
Whether your family made it at home or came back with a big red-and-white bucket, fried chicken night could turn a Tuesday into an event. Skillets of hot oil sang on stovetops. Paper towels drained golden pieces. Coleslaw crunched. Biscuits steamed when you pulled them apart.
Why it mattered: It tasted like celebration. It also fed neighbors when they “happened to stop by.”
How I honor it now: Crispy “chicken” cutlets made from tofu or oyster mushrooms, dredged in seasoned flour and baked or air-fried. Slaw with apple cider vinegar. Flaky vegan biscuits. Leftovers on picnic blankets, which is the right place for any fried memory.
7) Sloppy Joes that required a stack of napkins
A can of Manwich or a homemade mix of ketchup, mustard, brown sugar, and Worcestershire turned ground beef into a tangy mound destined for soft buns. The name gave kids permission to be messy and parents permission to laugh about it.
Why it mattered: It was cheap, cheerful, and ready in the time it took to set the table.
How I honor it now: Lentil-walnut “Joes” or crumbled tempeh simmered with tomato paste, mustard, and smoked paprika. Piled onto toasted buns with pickles. You still need two napkins. Maybe three.
8) Fish sticks, tater tots, and lemon wedges
Crunch was king on weeknights. The freezer delivered: breaded sticks lined up like soldiers on a sheet pan. A squeeze of lemon made us feel coastal, even three states from the ocean. Tots rolled around the plate, collecting ketchup like badges.
Why it mattered: It cooked while math homework happened and still felt like a treat.
How I honor it now: Breaded tofu “fish” with nori for a whisper of the sea, roasted potatoes, and a quick tartar made from chopped pickles, herbs, and dairy-free yogurt. I still put the lemon on the table like a centerpiece.
9) Hamburger Helper and the magic of one skillet
“Add meat, milk, water.” The box did the rest. Cheeseburger Macaroni, Beef Noodle, Stroganoff. It was the meal you could hand to a babysitter or a teenager and trust you would come home to something edible.
Why it mattered: The one-pan miracle saved dishes, time, and parental patience.
How I honor it now: A from-scratch skillet of short pasta, seasoned plant crumbles or lentils, onions, paprika, and cashew “cheese” sauce finished right in the pan. Sprinkle with chives and watch the table go quiet for a minute, the way it used to.
10) Taco kit Tuesdays with crunchy shells
A yellow box with a seasoning packet, hard shells, and a jar of salsa was all the permission a family needed to call it “taco night.” Iceberg lettuce, chopped tomatoes, shredded cheese, sour cream, and seasoned beef. If your shells survived the oven without cracking, you felt like a wizard.
Why it mattered: It let everyone build their own plate. Kids felt in charge. Parents felt the rare dinner truce.
How I honor it now: Spiced pinto beans or crumbled tempeh with chili powder and cumin, crunchy shells, and a spread of lettuce, pico, avocado, and lime. Tacos still turn kitchens into parties, even when you make them with beans. I mention it because I am vegan now and still look forward to Tuesdays.
Bonus cameos that deserve a nod
Chef Boyardee pizza kits. A can of sauce, dough mix, and pepperoni rationed with the precision of a watchmaker. I veganize it with dough from scratch, garlicky sauce, and mushrooms that sizzle like they mean it.
Chicken à la king on toast. Creamy, cozy, beige on beige. My plant-based version uses mushrooms, peas, and cashew cream over toasted sourdough.
Green bean casserole, even when it was not Thanksgiving. If a can of fried onions lived in your pantry, dinner was on the table.
These meals were middle-class markers for reasons beyond taste. They fit tight budgets and predictable routines. They leveraged the brand-new power of convenience foods in tidy cans and boxes.
They turned ovens into warming stations and kids into reliable helpers. They gave families with two working parents a way to sit down together most nights without collapsing. They welcomed neighbors. They stretched leftovers into tomorrow’s lunch.
If you grew up in that era, you can probably still hear the metal snap of a TV-dinner corner, the shake-shake of a Parmesan can, the crackle of a chicken piece lowered into oil, the laugh that came after someone admitted they burned the garlic bread again. Food is memory’s favorite language.
I do not need to eat the original ingredients to feel what they meant. I only need the ritual: a warm plate passed hand to hand, the steam that fogs your glasses when you lean in for the first bite, the way everyone leans back at the same time when they are done.
A quick note about being vegan now, because people always ask. I did not “give up” these dinners. I translated them. The point was never the exact protein. The point was how it felt to be in that kitchen or on that couch, together.
A plant-based lentil loaf can carry the same gratitude as a beef one when you make it for someone you love. A skillet of dairy-free cheesy pasta eaten from bowls on a school night can hit the same spot as the box mix did.
And a taco kit is still a taco kit when the star is a skillet of cumin-scented beans. The muscle memory is what feeds us.
If you still have a recipe box, pull it down one of these afternoons. Read a few cards out loud. Call someone who cooked for you once and say thank you.
Then make a version that fits your life now. Swap, substitute, experiment. Keep the table. Keep the laughter. Keep the napkins close for Sloppy Joe night. Some things never change, and I am glad.
Final thoughts
Middle-class American childhoods in the 60s and 70s were built on weeknight staples that were more practical than polished: meatloaf and mash, tuna casserole, pot roast, spaghetti with a jar, TV dinners, fried chicken, Sloppy Joes, fish sticks and tots, Hamburger Helper, and taco kits.
They delivered reliability, value, and togetherness. I eat vegan now, so I remix each one with plants and a little kitchen curiosity, but the heart of those dinners remains the same. They were invitations to sit, share, and be a family for half an hour before homework, dishes, and the nightly news.
If you want to taste that feeling again, you do not need the exact can or box. You need a warm plate, a simple plan, and a table where everyone knows they belong
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