7 nostalgic recipes families still make every Thanksgiving — even if no one likes them

Some dishes survive Thanksgiving through sheer force of tradition, not taste. They appear year after year like beloved aunts who tell the same story and we all pretend we haven’t heard it.

I’m vegan now (hi, lentil loaf and mushroom gravy), but I grew up in the era of canned crescendos and Jell-O ambition.

These recipes are the Thanksgiving background characters that refuse to quit the franchise—ritual on a casserole dish, nostalgia in 9×13.

Nobody really loves them… and yet we would mutiny if they vanished.

Here are the 7 usual suspects—tenderly roasted, a little roasted roasted—and why they keep showing up, even when no one’s going back for seconds.

1. The canned cranberry cylinder (with the can lines still visible)

It arrives on a plate, holds its own shape like a little ruby sculpture, and bears the pale ridges of the can like tree rings.

Someone invariably slices it into perfect coins, arranges them like poker chips, and says, “Looks nice!” It does. It looks like a Thanksgiving catalog from 1987.

Secret reason it survives: time travel.

The minute the lid shlucks off and that crimson slug slides free, everyone is eight years old again, watching a parent do battle with a manual can opener.

Real cranberry sauce is great! Someone probably made some!

The cylinder is not competing; it’s performing. Also: it’s terrific on leftover sandwiches, where it’s less “side dish” and more “edible glue.”

Keep-or-tweak: If the table rebels against change, slice half the can into coins and dice the other half with orange zest and a squeeze of lemon. The purists see their rings; the flavor people get a brightness upgrade.

2. Green bean casserole with the existential mushroom soup

Green beans (often tired), a can of cream-of-something, a flurry of fried onions that do all the heavy lifting—this is the casserole that shows up like a rom-com best friend in a chunky sweater.

No one is ever excited for it. No one is ever mad at it. It’s the Switzerland of sides.

Secret reason it survives: it’s architecture.

The crispy onions look like a craft project. There’s always an older cousin who insists on being the one to scatter them like wedding confetti. Also, it makes the house smell like Thanksgiving at exactly the right time—somewhere between the sweet stuff and the savory stuff, mushroomy and reassuring.

Keep-or-tweak: Upgrade without advertising it. Blanch fresh beans so they stay snappy, swap the can for a quick skillet sauce (sautéed mushrooms + garlic + plant milk + a spoon of miso if you’re me), then still add the fried onions because we’re not anarchists.

3. Sweet potato casserole under a toasted marshmallow duvet

Is it a side? Is it a dessert? Why is it wearing a puffer jacket of marshmallows? None of this matters when the sugar crust shatters and plumes of steam fog your glasses.

Someone always says, “It’s too sweet,” then eats two spoonfuls with the determination of a person finishing a novel they don’t like.

Secret reason it survives: drama.

You get a whole tableside moment when the casserole emerges: browned peaks, a few sacrificial marshmallows gone black at the tips, cousins jockeying for the corner pieces that crunch. Also, it’s a safe adventure for picky eaters—familiar, soft, softly psycho.

Keep-or-tweak: Cut sweetness in half and add salt like you’re brave. Roast the sweet potatoes instead of boiling, mash with a little orange zest, cinnamon, and a pinch of ginger, then top with half the marshmallows and some pecans. Everyone wins, blood sugar included.

4. Ambrosia salad (the whipped-cream fruit fog with mini marshmallows)

Ambrosia is what you’d get if a cloud married a fruit cocktail and the wedding cake ran away with the silverware. Grapes, mandarins, canned pineapple, coconut, sometimes maraschino cherries that stain everything like lipstick. It sits in a cut-glass bowl and dares you to call it salad.

Secret reason it survives: grandma diplomacy.

Ambrosia belongs to the aunts and grandmothers who remember a time when this was couture. It is Thanksgiving’s pastel relic, a truce dish: nobody fights near the ambrosia. Also, it’s cold. On a table of hot browns and golds, ambrosia is air conditioning.

Keep-or-tweak: Whisper “yogurt” (or coconut yogurt) instead of whipped topping, add toasted coconut for texture, and fold in a handful of chopped fresh citrus to cut the sweetness. The bowl still looks like the '70s, but your mouth doesn’t.

5. Stuffing with raisins (or oysters) that splits the room

There’s always one wildcard stuffing: studded with raisins, spiked with oysters, perfumed with sage like a Victorian parlor. Half the table is thrilled. The other half looks like they opened the wrong Netflix tab. And yet—there it is, bulking out the spread like a responsible friend who brought a sweater.

Secret reason it survives: inheritance.

That recipe card has someone’s handwriting all over it. You don’t cancel handwriting. Also, stuffing is the leftovers champion — even the weird one gets a second act in the skillet with a little broth until crispy at the edges.

Keep-or-tweak: Make a small “heritage pan” to honor the raisins or oysters, and a big pan of classic bread-herb-celery-onion for the civilians. If you’re veganizing, easy: olive oil + veg stock + lots of browned onions + toasted nuts for intrigue. The house will smell like a forest at golden hour.

6. Jell-O “salad” with the suspended fruit (and the rogue carrot shreds)

A shimmering dome with things floating inside will never not be dramatic. Peaches hover. Grapes promenade. Occasionally, a renegade recipe calls for shredded carrots, and everyone politely pretends not to notice they’re eating a deli slaw trapped in amber. A dollop of something creamy on top and boom: retro glamour.

Secret reason it survives: the reveal. Will it unmold? Will it slurp onto the platter intact?

The room holds its breath: someone runs a knife around the edge like a surgeon; applause breaks out if it lands. It’s theater, and Thanksgiving loves an act break.

Keep-or-tweak: If you keep it, keep it weird and good—use tart cherry or cranberry gelatin vibe (or agar if plant-based), load with fresh fruit instead of canned, and set it in a loaf pan for dignified slices.

No carrots unless you’re prepared to go to war.

7. The canned gravy, for insurance (even when there’s fancy gravy too)

There’s always a tiny saucepan or, let’s be honest, the actual can hidden near the stove, kept hot like a secret. Someone spent hours making a glossy, proper gravy. And yet—if the fancy gravy breaks or runs out, the Emergency Gravy steps in like a sub in gym class. It tastes like salt and memory. It is fine. It gets the job done.

Secret reason it survives: disaster planning.

Thanksgiving is a project plan with unreliable interns (potatoes, timing, oven politics). Canned gravy is the portable generator. Also, a surprising number of people quietly prefer it, the way some prefer diner coffee to single-origin pour-over. Palates are autobiographies.

Keep-or-tweak: If you’re plant-based or have mixed eaters, make a big batch of mushroom gravy with caramelized onions and tamari—it holds like a champ and converts the skeptics. Keep the can warming like a souvenir. No one will feel unsafe.

Why we keep cooking food nobody loves (and why I secretly love that)

Because Thanksgiving is less a menu than a memory engine.

These dishes pull season after season like dependable sitcom characters: the canned cranberry cylinder is the lovable neighbor; the green bean casserole delivers deadpan lines; ambrosia is the eccentric aunt who wears brooches; stuffing with raisins is the brooding artist; the Jell-O dome is the dramatic cameo everyone talks about on the drive home.

We keep them because someone we loved kept them. We keep them because their smells are timestamps. We keep them because doing something unnecessary together is half the point of a holiday. Also, we keep them because they’re easy, and ease is a kindness when fifteen moving parts are trying to share one oven.

If you’re the designated modernizer (hi, it’s me), here’s the truce: make one outrageous new dish every year. Let the old and new sit together and swap stories.

Nobody has to like everything. They just have to feel invited. That’s what these oddball recipes do, year after year. They invite us back to the table we learned to pass bowls at, to the kind of patience it takes to wait for the marshmallow peaks to brown, to the gentle wonder of watching grapes float in orange gelatin and clapping when they do.

And if a few spoonfuls go back to the kitchen uneaten? Fine.

We’ll eat the leftovers we love on Friday, the way we like them now. But on Thursday, we set the stage with every character—and let the day be bigger than flavor.