Mom’s cooking was the heart of home. Her soups made winter better, her rice never burned, and the way she salted pasta water felt like instinct. But for all the warmth and wisdom she passed down, there were a few recipes we just never got around to.
Not because they weren’t loved—some of them just belonged to a different era, or stayed in someone else’s kitchen. As I got older, I found myself craving them, not just for the flavors, but for the quiet joy they carry.
Here are 20 dishes I wish she had shown me, not because she failed—but because they would’ve made the memory of her cooking even more complete.
1. Roast Chicken With Vegetables
Mom always made chicken thighs with crisp skin and sticky sauce, but we never did the whole bird. The first time I tried, I trussed it clumsily, added too many carrots, and panicked when the skin darkened too fast.
Now I know to roast it with lemon, rosemary, and patience, letting the vegetables soak in the juices. I still think of her every time the kitchen fills with the smell of garlic and thyme.
2. Classic Beef Meatloaf
We weren’t a meatloaf family—Mom had her own ways with ground beef, usually simmered in tomato sauce or shaped into tiny patties. But there’s something about the smell of a meatloaf baking that feels like it belongs in a memory.
When I finally made one myself—with breadcrumbs soaked in milk and a shiny ketchup glaze—it felt like discovering a cousin of her cooking I’d never met before.
3. Spaghetti With Homemade Marinara
Her pasta was perfect—al dente and always served with a little grated cheese and lots of care. But we used store-bought sauce, and I never questioned it.
Later, when I simmered garlic and onions with crushed tomatoes for hours, I realized what that extra step added. Not better than hers—just different, deeper, slower.
4. Fluffy Buttermilk Pancakes
Sunday mornings meant crepes in our house, thin and golden with jam. Pancakes were more of a diner thing—tall, fluffy, stacked high.
It wasn’t until I tried whisking in buttermilk and resting the batter that I understood what they were all about. Now I make them with a side of nostalgia.
5. Chicken Pot Pie
Mom was a queen of stews, but pot pie never made an appearance. Maybe because we didn’t grow up with pastry in our savory dishes.
The first time I slid a spoon through golden crust into creamy chicken and peas, it felt both new and strangely familiar—like her chicken soup wrapped in celebration.
6. Baked Macaroni And Cheese
She always made pasta baked with tomato and a little cheese on top. I loved it—still do. But the oozy, golden mac and cheese I had at a friend’s house stayed with me.
Years later, when I folded béchamel into sharp cheddar and baked it with breadcrumbs, I realized it wasn’t better than hers—just a different kind of comfort.
7. Garlic Mashed Potatoes
Our potatoes were always smooth, seasoned just right, and rich with butter. But we didn’t do roasted garlic or cream.
When I finally tried that mellow sweetness folded into creamy mash, it felt like her cooking with a new accent.
8. Tuna Noodle Casserole
The name alone scared me. She never made it, so neither did I—until one day, I did.
Peas, noodles, a white sauce that didn’t pretend to be fancy. I loved it more than I should have. She would’ve raised an eyebrow, then reached for seconds.
9. Creamy Tomato Soup
Ours came from cans. She’d dress it up, sure—add rice, maybe a spoon of sour cream. But homemade? That was a future me thing.
Now I simmer tomatoes with onions and butter, blend it smooth, sip it like memory. If soup could hum, it would hum in her voice.
10. Deviled Eggs
She made beautiful boiled eggs, sliced over salads or tucked into sandwiches. But deviled eggs? Not her thing.
When I made them for the first time—whipping yolks with mustard and mayo—I imagined us standing at the kitchen counter, tasting the filling off a spoon, smiling at the spice.
11. Pot Roast With Gravy
We slow-cooked, sure—but never like this. No carrots glistening in pan drippings, no beef that fell into itself.
I made it once for friends, and the silence at the table felt sacred. I wish she’d tasted it. I wish we’d argued about salt.
12. Scrambled Eggs Done Right
Quick and firm, that’s how she made them. “No runny stuff,” she’d say, half-laughing.
Years later, I whisked in cream and stirred gently over low heat until they just barely set. She’d have called them fancy. I’d have made her try them anyway.
13. Simple Chicken Noodle Soup
Her soups could make you believe in goodness. But oddly, never this one.
I made it after a breakup—hand-shredded chicken, wide noodles, carrots cut without precision. It didn’t fix anything, but it held me together. She would’ve understood.
14. Banana Bread
Bananas were for eating, not baking. We never had leftovers long enough for them to turn sweet and speckled.
Now I hoard the blackest ones. Brown sugar, cinnamon, a squeeze of lemon. It tastes like something warm, something old, something I want to share.
15. Sloppy Joes
She preferred neat food. Fork-and-knife food. Sloppy Joes were a television thing.
But I made them once, piled high on toasted buns, and laughed when the sauce hit my chin. That mess? It felt honest.
16. Grilled Cheese Sandwich
Our sandwiches had cold cheese. This was different. This was slow, crisp, buttery.
When I made my first one right, the crust crackled and the middle stretched like a string quartet. I ate it over the sink, smiling.
17. Apple Crisp
We baked apples whole, stuffed with sugar and nuts. Crisp never came up.
Then I tasted oats toasted in butter, caramel juice at the bottom of the pan. I made it three days in a row. She would’ve added cloves, I think.
18. Biscuits From Scratch
She never used baking powder. Biscuits were a Southern mystery, not part of our world.
When I made them—flour flying, butter cold, hands fast—they rose like pride. She would’ve cheered.
19. French Toast
We had toast. We had eggs. Somehow we never connected the dots.
Now I dip stale bread into a vanilla-speckled bath and sizzle it in butter until gold. I imagine her watching, tea in hand, saying, “Now that’s clever.”
20. Chocolate Chip Cookies
We made cookies, but never THE cookies. Never the kind with browned butter and puddles of chocolate.
I baked them one rainy afternoon and sat by the oven, waiting. When they cooled, they tasted like something she would’ve packed in my lunch, if she’d known. Maybe next time, I’ll pack them in hers.