25 FORGOTTEN Side Dishes You Could ONLY Learn From GRANDMA

25 Forgotten Side Dishes You Could Only Learn From Grandma

#CookingLikeGrandma #GrandmasRecipes #ForgottenDishes

Step back into Grandma’s kitchen and rediscover the flavors that time forgot.

In “25 Forgotten Side Dishes You Could Only Learn From Grandma,” we’re bringing back the humble, heartwarming recipes that filled bellies, stretched budgets, and turned simple ingredients into unforgettable comfort food.

From tomato gravy over biscuits to rice and raisin pudding, mock apple pie, and even potato candy, these dishes prove that love and creativity matter far more than fancy ingredients. Whether it was breakfast, Sunday supper, or a quick fix on a tight budget, Grandma’s side dishes had a way of making everyone feel at home.

🍽 In this video, you’ll discover:

Vintage Southern classics like cornbread dressing and fried cornmeal mush

Depression-era genius recipes such as mock apple pie and potato candy

Comforting sides like soft-boiled eggs with buttered soldiers and peanut butter & honey milkshakes

Nostalgic, no-fuss favorites that deserve a comeback in today’s kitchens

These recipes are more than food — they’re stories, memories, and tradition served on a plate. Perfect for vintage food lovers, history buffs, and anyone looking to bring a little old-fashioned comfort back to the table.

📌 If you love retro recipes and forgotten dishes, make sure to LIKE this video, SUBSCRIBE for more vintage cooking inspiration, and share your favorite Grandma dish in the comments!

#VintageCooking #GrandmasRecipes #ForgottenDishes #ComfortFood #OldFashionedCooking #VintageRecipes #RetroFood #HomemadeCooking #CookingLikeGrandma

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cornbread dressing, creamed onions, and sweet 
raisin rice pudding. Humble dishes with big memories. They didn’t need fancy ingredients, 
just cast iron skillets, chipped bowls, and hands that knew what comfort tasted like. These 
are 25 forgotten side dishes you could only learn from grandma. And in the next few minutes, you’re 
going to remember why they’re worth bringing back. Tomato gravy and biscuits. Before store-bought 
mixes and frozen breakfast took over, there was tomato gravy. Rich, creamy, and just tangy enough 
to wake up the taste buds. It started with basic pantry, flour browned in bacon drippings or 
lard. Milk whisked slowly and a handful of canned or stewed tomatoes added until the whole 
pot turned a rosy hue. Poured hot over fresh from the oven biscuits. It wasn’t just breakfast. It 
was tradition. The gravy was often thick enough to hold a spoon upright, speckled with black pepper, 
and sometimes sweetened with a pinch of sugar, depending on the hand stirring the pot. No 
one needed sausage or eggs when there was a plate piled high with this. Back then, tomato 
gravy wasn’t just a dish. It was the heart of a southern morning. Made with whatever was left 
in the cupboard and served with whatever warmth was left in the house. Baked apples with raisins 
and cinnamon. Simple, warm, and sweet baked apples were a dessert made for hard times and full 
bellies. Each apple was coured and packed with raisins, brown sugar, and cinnamon, then baked 
until soft and bubbling in its own syrupy juices. No crust, no fuss, just a spoon and a plate. 
This side dish sat proudly next to roast pork, turned up at church suppers, and made humble week 
nights feel a bit more special. It didn’t ask for much. Just a few apples from the barrel, a scoop 
of sugar, and that jar of cinnamon every kitchen seemed to have tucked away. The smell alone could 
bring a whole house to the table, warm, spiced, and inviting. When fresh fruit was scarce or pie 
too labor intensive, baked apples filled the gap. Today, with prepackaged pastries and 
sugar-laden treats filling store aisles, these have mostly disappeared from the menu. 
Canned chili over saltines. It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. A can of chili heated on the stove, 
ladled over a plate of saltine crackers. Crunchy, salty, and soft all at once. No recipe needed. 
Just whatever you had left in the cupboard and the time it took to turn the burner on. This side 
dish was more than a meal hack. It was survival. Families turned to it when groceries were low, and 
dinner needed to happen fast. Saltines stretched the chili, soaked up the sauce, and somehow made a 
little kin feel like enough. If there was cheese, it went on top. If there were onions, they got 
chopped. Forget Instagram presentations. This was food that showed up when you needed it most. It 
filled stomachs, warmed the kitchen, and asked for nothing but a can opener and a plate. These days, 
it’s seen as too simple, too poor, too plain. Jelly roll-ups on white bread. No baking, no stove 
top, no fuss. Just a slice of white bread rolled flat, spread edge to edge with jelly, then curled 
into a tight little pin wheel and sliced in half. That was the whole recipe. And somehow it was 
enough. You’d find them packed into lunch boxes, handed out after school or made in a flash when 
money was tight and appetites were big. The bread gave it bulk. The jelly added sweetness and the 
whole thing came together in under a minute. Grapes, strawberries, apples, whatever was in 
the fridge got the job done. This forgotten side dish was a favorite because it didn’t 
pretend to be more than it was. It was simple, sweet, and satisfying. But as processed snacks and 
shiny wrappers took over, jelly roll-ups quietly disappeared. Apple ring pancakes. Breakfast didn’t 
always come from a box or a drive-through window. Sometimes it came from a skillet and a single 
apple. Thick slices were cut into rings, dipped in pancake batter, and fried until golden and fluffy 
with sweet fruit in the middle of every bite. This was the kind of side dish that turned 
Sunday breakfast into something special. No syrups or toppings needed, just a little powdered 
sugar, maybe a dab of butter. It was fast, frugal, and didn’t waste a thing. Bruised apples, perfect. 
Leftover batter, even better. Before toaster waffles and sugary cereals became the norm, meals 
like this were how the day started. They didn’t cost much and didn’t take long, but they left you 
full and smiling. Apple ring pancakes were dessert and breakfast allin-one, and they disappeared the 
moment convenience food took over. Cornmeal mush. Cornmeal mush was one of those meals that didn’t 
need a recipe, just muscle, patience, and whatever was left in the pantry. A big pot, some salted 
water, and a slow pour of cornmeal while stirring constantly. That was the heart of it. It thickened 
into a warm porridge that could be served fresh and hot, often with a splash of milk or a drizzle 
of molasses. But the real magic happened the next day. Once cooled, it firmed into a loaf, easy 
to slice and pan fry in a bit of lard or bacon grease. The outside crisped up golden brown while 
the inside stayed soft and creamy. It went with everything. Beans, greens, eggs, syrup, whatever 
was on hand. Families could stretch one sack of cornmeal across weeks. It didn’t spoil, didn’t 
cost much, and filled you right up. On hard days, it might be the only thing on the plate, and 
nobody complained. It was breakfast, dinner, or even a late night snack. Always served hot and 
made with care. Cornmeal mush wasn’t flashy, but it got the job done. And back then, that was what 
counted most. Mock apple pie, made with crackers. Mock apple pie was born out of necessity. No 
apples, no problem. A stack of saltine crackers, some sugar, cinnamon, and a splash of lemon juice 
created a filling that fooled more than a few folks. The crackers softened as they baked, 
soaking in the syrup and spices until they mimicked the texture of cooked apples. You’d start 
with a basic pie crust, usually homemade, flaky, and buttery. The apples were made by layering 
broken saltines in the shell, then pouring over a hot mixture of water, sugar, cream of tartar, 
and cinnamon. Add a few drops of lemon juice or even vinegar, and it suddenly smelled like fall. 
Once baked, the top crust turned golden and crisp, and the whole thing came out bubbling, aromatic, 
and convincing enough to pass for the real thing at first bite. Some even swore it tasted better. 
During the Great Depression and wartime rationing, this clever trick became a kitchen staple. It used 
what was available, made do without complaint, and still brought dessert to the table when 
nothing else could. Softboiled eggs with buttered soldiers. Mornings moved fast, but there was still 
time for something warm. Softboiled eggs with buttered soldiers were the breakfast that filled 
you up without slowing you down. The eggs were boiled just long enough to set the whites, leaving 
the yolks golden and runny, ready for dipping. Toast was sliced into neat strips, thin enough to 
dunk, thick enough to hold. buttered while hot, the bread soaked up every drop of yolk like 
it was meant for it. No forks, no knives, just fingers in a little ceramic egg cup. The eggs 
were timed by instinct, not by gadgets. A gentle tap on the shell, a careful crack of the top, 
and breakfast was served. It didn’t take much, just eggs, bread, and butter, but it had a way 
of making the morning feel more civilized. This wasn’t a rushed meal. It was a ritual, perfect for 
school days, busy Sundays, or those quiet, chilly mornings when the stove was already warm. The 
kind of dish that didn’t need explaining, it just needed eating. Mayonnaise and pineapple salad. 
This might raise eyebrows today, but back then, this sweet and tangy salad turned up at every 
church potluck, Sunday dinner, or family picnic. One thick slice of canned pineapple went on a 
piece of iceberg lettuce topped with a generous spoonful of mayonnaise, a sprinkle of shredded 
cheddar cheese, and if it was a special occasion, a bright red marishino cherry right on top. The 
combination of sweet pineapple, creamy mayo, and salty cheddar might sound unusual now, but it 
just worked. The cheese cut through the sweetness. The mayo added richness. And the pineapple 
brought that bright, juicy bite that kept it refreshing. It didn’t need a long ingredient 
list or a hot oven. You could open a few cans, do a little grading, and have a whole tray ready 
in minutes. It was one of those sides that dressed up the table without much effort and added a 
little color next to a ham roast or meatloaf. For many, this wasn’t just a salad. It was a piece 
of nostalgia in every bite. Simple, striking, and oddly satisfying. It’s one of those forgotten side 
dishes that deserves a second glance. Leftover rice with creamed spinach. Leftover rice never 
went to waste in kitchens that knew how to stretch a meal. One of the most filling and surprisingly 
comforting ways to use it was mixing it with creamed spinach. A quick fix made from canned or 
frozen spinach warmed in a pot with milk, salt, and a bit of butter or cheese. Once the spinach 
mixture thickened slightly, the cold rice was stirred in, absorbing the creaminess and softening 
into a dish that was more satisfying than it had any right to be. It wasn’t fancy, but it was hot, 
hearty, and felt like something more than the sum of its parts. Some cooks added a pinch of nutmeg 
or garlic powder. Others, when eggs were around, would crack one in and stir until it cooked 
through, adding extra protein and richness. It was a dish that changed depending on the pantry, but 
the bones of it stayed the same. Leftover rice, warm milk, leafy greens, and whatever else was 
hanging around. When dinner time rolled in with no clear plan and a bare fridge, this was the kind 
of side that came together fast, filled a plate, and made sure no one left the table hungry. Rice 
and raisin pudding. Back then, a pot of leftover rice didn’t get tossed. It got transformed. Rice 
and raisin pudding was the kind of sweet fix you could whip up with scraps, and it never failed to 
comfort. You’d take cold cooked rice, pour in some milk, fresh or evaporated, add sugar, a handful 
of raisins, and stir it all gently over low heat. As it warmed, the raisins plumped, the milk 
thickened, and the rice softened again, soaking in all the sweetness. It didn’t take long, maybe 10 
minutes, maybe 15 if the stove was fussy. If there was a cinnamon stick or a dash of vanilla, even 
better. But it worked just fine without. This dish showed up as breakfast when eggs were scarce or as 
dessert when there wasn’t anything else. It didn’t need baking or fancy prep, just a little heat 
and time. Some folks liked it soupy. Others let it simmer longer for a thicker spoonable pudding. 
It was warm, easy on the stomach, and gave kids something sweet without dipping into the grocery 
budget. Forgotten by most, but for families who lived through lean times, rice and raisin pudding 
was one of those comforting vintage side dishes that quietly carried joy to the table. Just the 
kind only grandma could teach. Tomato eggdrop soup. This wasn’t a meal that needed fanfare. It 
was the soup you made when the pantry was nearly empty. But you still needed something warm and 
filling. Tomato eggdrop soup started with broth, chicken, beef, or even just water with a buon 
cube stirred in. Add in a can of tomatoes, juice, and all, and let it bubble on the stove top. Once 
it reaches a steady simmer, you’d crack a couple of eggs into a bowl, whisk them gently, and then 
pour them into the pot slowly, stirring in wide circles. The eggs cooked instantly, turning into 
soft, silky ribbons floating through the broth. Some added a dash of pepper or chopped herbs if 
they had them, but that wasn’t necessary. The broth was tangy from the tomatoes, hearty from the 
eggs, and just enough to fill a belly after a long day. It came together in 10 minutes or less, and 
it didn’t require anything you wouldn’t already have tucked in a cabinet somewhere. In homes where 
groceries had to stretch, this soup was more than a recipe. It was a lifesaver. Warming cold hands 
and quieting hungry mouths. Peanut butter and honey milkshakes. No fancy blenders, no protein 
powder, just peanut butter, milk, and honey. That was enough to make a breakfast that stuck with 
you until lunch. You’d spoon the peanut butter into a glass jar or cup, drizzle in honey, and 
pour over cold milk, stir it fast with a fork, or give it a shake in a mason jar if you have one. 
If there was a banana on the counter or ice cubes in the tray, those might get tossed in, too. 
But even without extras, this was thick, sweet, and filled you up like a meal. It had protein, 
energy, and sweetness. Everything needed to get through a school day or shift at the mill. It 
wasn’t made for show. It didn’t need measuring cups or timing. Just pantry staples, a quick mix, 
and you had breakfast in minutes. It went down easy and didn’t leave a mess behind. Back then, 
this kind of shake was a mother’s secret weapon, especially for teenagers who wouldn’t sit for 
breakfast. It didn’t cost much, didn’t take long, and somehow managed to feel like a treat. Cold 
spaghetti with Italian dressing. When supper leftovers met a hot day, cold spaghetti with 
Italian dressing showed up. It wasn’t fancy, but it was one of those smart little dishes that 
turned last night’s noodles into something fresh and new without touching the stove. You’d rinse 
off the spaghetti, toss it into a big bowl, and drizzle on bottled Italian dressing, zesty, 
herby, and tangy. Whatever was left in the fridge might go into chopped bell peppers, sliced olives, 
onions, maybe some shredded cheese. It depended on what was on hand and what needed using up. Give it 
a good toss and let it chill for a few minutes and suddenly it becomes a whole new meal. This side 
dish worked great for lunchboxes, hot afternoons or potlucks where you didn’t want to bring 
something fussy. It was light, cool, and just filling enough to hold you over. Today it might 
be called a pasta salad, but back then it was just a smart way to not waste food. It made the most 
out of what you had with zero effort and somehow always tasted better the next day. Spam and egg 
scramble. When you opened a can of spam, you knew dinner would be on the table in 10 minutes flat. 
Cubed up and tossed into a hot skillet, it browned fast, turning crispy on the edges while staying 
soft in the middle. Crack in a few eggs. Add some diced onion if it was around. And you had a meal 
that was salty, savory, and filling. This scramble didn’t need seasoning. Spam had plenty. It was the 
kind of meal you made when groceries were running low, but mouths still needed feeding. It filled 
a plate, filled a belly, and didn’t leave dirty pans behind. Sometimes it got served with toast or 
wrapped in a slice of white bread like a sandwich. Other times it was eaten straight from the pan. 
Either way, it felt like something real, even when the ingredients came from a can. Spam might not be 
glamorous now, but back then it was gold in a tin, shelf stable, affordable, and always ready to 
turn into dinner. This simple scramble proved you didn’t need much to make something that felt 
whole. Egg in a hole. Egg in a hole went by a dozen names depending on the kitchen you were 
standing in. Some called it toad in the hole. Others said sunshine toast, but every version 
meant the same thing. Breakfast that felt a little special without costing a dime extra. You started 
with a slice of sandwich bread, usually white, and cut out a circle from the center using a glass 
or the rim of a jar. into the skillet. It went with a dab of butter, toasted just enough to crisp 
the edges. Then you’d crack an egg into that hole, letting it fry up right inside the bread. The yolk 
stayed soft if you timed it right, perfect for sapping up with the crust. It was warm, golden, 
and ready in 5 minutes flat. No extra dishes, no waste. Sometimes there was a little sprinkle 
of pepper or a dusting of salt. If there was time, the circle cut from the center got toasted, too, 
and served right on top like a lid. It was a breakfast born out of thrift and time-saving, but 
it still felt like a treat, even on the busiest school mornings. Fried cornmeal mush. After a 
pot of cornmeal mush had done its duty, there was always a bit left over. And that’s where fried 
cornmeal mush came in. A second day side dish that proved nothing ever went to waste. Once the hot 
porridge cooled, it stiffened into a firm loaf you could slice like bread. Those golden slabs 
were dropped into a hot skillet with bacon grease or lard, frying until the edges turned crisp and 
the center stayed soft and creamy. You’d hear that sizzle as it hit the pan, and the smell would 
drift through the house, dragging sleepy feet toward the kitchen. Some folks poured molasses 
on top. Others added a fried egg or a spoonful of beans. It worked at breakfast, lunch, or supper 
and made the most of a single sack of cornmeal. There wasn’t a need for fresh ingredients or a 
big grocery list. Just yesterday’s leftovers, a skillet, and the kind of knowhow that comes 
from doing a lot with very little. Fried cornmeal mush wasn’t just any side. It was one of those 
forgotten dishes that stretched a tight budget and turned kitchen scraps into something worth 
remembering, straight from grandma’s table. Barbecued pork kidneys. Back when barbecues 
were more than burgers and brats, pork kidneys had their place right on the fire. Marinated, 
skewered, and grilled until smoky and tender. Sure, they weren’t for the faint of heart, but 
for folks who grew up with nosetotail cooking, kidneys were just another part of the feast. 
First came the prep. Sliced and soaked to tame the strong flavor. Then marinated in vinegar, 
garlic, maybe a little mustard or hot sauce, depending on who was doing the cooking. They hit 
the grill over an open flame and needed careful timing. Too long and they’d toughen just right. 
And they stayed juicy with a little char on the outside. Served hot off the fire, sometimes with 
a bold barbecue sauce or spicy relish. These were bites that packed real depth. They weren’t 
meant to be dainty. They were bold, earthy, and made with care. Canned chicken hash. Chicken 
hash from a can didn’t look like much, but it sure cooked up into something worth remembering. It 
was pantry cooking at its best. A one skillet dinner that pulled flavor from almost nothing. 
You’d open a can of shredded chicken, drain it, and throw it into a hot pan with diced onions and 
chopped up potatoes. leftover if you had them, raw if you didn’t. A little butter or bacon 
grease helped it all brown. And if you were lucky, the bottom crisped just right, giving you that 
golden layer that stuck to the pan just enough. Sometimes it got salt and pepper if there was 
garlic or a spice jar in reach that too. But most times the ingredients spoke for themselves, meaty, 
starchy, and just enough to fill everyone’s plate. This hash came together fast and worked hard, 
feeding a table with nothing fresh in sight. It was the kind of supper you’d make on a Thursday 
night with payday still 2 days off. Not glamorous, not pretty, but real. Hot and full of comfort. 
Raisin Bran with warm milk and butter. Before the age of cartoon cereal boxes and plastic toys 
inside, breakfast came in a bowl that smelled like comfort. Raisin bran with warm milk and 
butter was one of those winter staples. Simple, filling, and just sweet enough to start the day. 
You’d pour bran flakes into a big ceramic bowl, then heat milk on the stove until it steamed. 
A scoop of butter, just enough to melt and spread its richness, went in next. Then came the 
sprinkle of brown sugar or a pinch of cinnamon, if the pantry had any despair. The hot milk softened 
the flakes just enough while the raisins plumped and sweetened every bite. It wasn’t fancy, but it 
warmed you from the inside out. For cold mornings when chores waited or snow piled at the door, this 
breakfast was fuel for whatever came next. It took 5 minutes to make and left behind a bowl that 
felt more like a hug than a meal. It wasn’t about trends or packaging, just practical, reliable 
food that made the most out of every bite. Smoked turkey necks and stew. Smoked turkey necks didn’t 
sit pretty on a plate, but they had a way of bringing deep, rich flavor to a stew like nothing 
else could. Back when nothing got thrown away, these overlooked cuts were slowly simmered into 
magic. You’d rinse them off, drop them into a pot with beans, greens, or root vegetables, whatever 
the pantry had, and let them bubble all afternoon. The smoke from the meat seeped into the broth, 
adding a depth you couldn’t get from buon or spice jars. The meat itself was tender, falling off the 
bone if you gave it time. This wasn’t a quick fix meal. It was a Sunday kind of dish where the pot 
simmerred low and slow while the rest of the day went on. Some folks added hot sauce or cornbread 
on the side. Others just ladled it into deep bowls and called it dinner. This forgotten side dish of 
smoked turkey neck stew was proof that real flavor didn’t come from price. It came from patience, 
skill, and the kind of old-fashioned know-how only grandma’s kitchen could teach. Pork crackklins. 
Back then, no part of the pig went unused, and that included the skin. Pork crackklins were 
the crunchy reward after a long day of butchering. made by frying the skin and bits of fat until 
they turned golden, puffed, and full of flavor. It started with trimming down thick slabs of pig 
skin, often with a little fat still clinging on. Into the pot they went, rendered slowly until 
the fat melted down and the skin crisped up. The result was loud, salty, and completely addicting. 
Some folks tossed them with a dash of salt or red pepper. Others stirred them into cornbread 
batter or crumbled them over beans and greens for an extra bite. They weren’t just snacks. They 
were survival cooking. Crunchy reminders that you honored the whole animal, not just the 
pretty cuts. You’d find them at gatherings, in lunch pales, and always hidden in a kitchen 
tin where fingers weren’t supposed to sneak. Whole hog barbecue. If ever there was a side dish 
that turned into a celebration, it was whole hog barbecue. Not a slice, not a cut, the whole pig 
roasted low and slow over wood coals, seasoned from snout to tail with whatever dry rub the cooks 
swore by. It started before sunrise with a pit dug and wood fired down to glowing embers. The pig 
butterfied and brined or rubbed the night before, was laid across a grate and cooked for hours. 
Not rushed, never rushed. This was a process that demanded patience and attention. The skin crackled 
into golden armor. The meat beneath stayed juicy, smoky, and seasoned through every layer. As 
the hours passed, folks gathered, kids ran, coffee brewed, and the smell hung heavy in the 
air like a promise. Side dishes came out. Slaw, beans, bread, and once the hog was ready, 
meat was carved right off the bone. Smoked buffalo. Smoked buffalo wasn’t your everyday 
table meat. It was lean, tough if mishandled, and carried the wild taste of the plains, but if 
you knew what you were doing, you could turn it into something remarkable. The key was in the slow 
smoke. Buffalo cuts were rubbed with spice blends, usually paprika, garlic, salt, and a hint of brown 
sugar, then set over wood chips, and left to smoke low and slow. No shortcuts. The meat softened 
over hours, picking up deep flavor and holding on to its rugged texture without drying out. You 
didn’t drown it in sauce. You respected it. Served sliced on a wooden cutting board or shredded over 
beans and potatoes, it was hearty and honest, a dish that didn’t pretend to be anything else. 
Buffalo was a meat you ate with intention, usually on special occasions or when someone got 
lucky with a good cut. It was a vintage side dish born from old traditions, frontier spirit, and 
the kind of cooking only grandma knew by heart. Potato candy. Sounds strange until you’ve tried 
it. Potato candy was the depression era treat that made sugar stretch and smiles last longer than 
the ingredients list suggested. One single mashed potato left over and cooled was all you needed to 
start. You’d stir in powdered sugar cup after cup until it turned from mash to dough. The texture 
was soft and stiff like sugar clay. That dough got rolled out into a sheet, spread with a thick 
layer of peanut butter, and rolled up tight like a jelly roll, sliced into pin wheels. It looked 
like something from a bakery case. No baking, no eggs, no butter, just sugar, peanut butter, 
and one spoon of leftover spuds. It was rich, sweet, and perfect for holidays, Sunday tables, 
or just whenever a little sweet was needed. But the cupboard was bare. Kids loved it. Adults 
marveled at it. And nobody believed it came from a potato. These forgotten side dishes might not 
be on today’s menus, but they still hold the kind of heart you can only learn from Grandma’s 
Kitchen. If you enjoyed this trip through vintage flavor and frugal genius, don’t forget 
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