As the holiday season rolls around, it’s not just about the food—it’s also a time when memories flood back. The other day, while waiting for my turn at the office microwave, I overheard a colleague reminiscing about her mother’s sweet potato pie, her eyes sparkling as she transported herself back to joyful family gatherings. Another chimed in about his mom’s comforting chicken and dumplings and the fond memories of rolling out dough with his siblings.
Amidst the delightful chatter, I couldn’t help but feel like an outsider. Not because I lacked a nurturing mother—my mom was amazing—but because my culinary experiences were far less romantic. You see, I was raised on what some might consider the least glamorous of foods: processed meals. My favorite childhood dishes were the kind that came in bright boxes and were accompanied by catchy jingles, with ingredients concocted in laboratories rather than kitchens. Our family recipes were more often found on the backs of packaging than in handwritten cookbooks.
Yet, despite this, I find myself feeling nostalgic about those factory-made meals. I remember cold, dark Midwestern evenings, with towels stuffed under windows to keep out the chill, as my mom served Campbell’s Chunky Beef Stew over plates of Minute Rice. The mushy rice soaked up the rich gravy, while outside, the world was a frigid, white landscape.
I can still picture potluck dinners, searching through the lumpy Jell-O salads for my mom’s signature dish: Idahoan scalloped potatoes. Those starchy layers, topped with a beautifully browned sauce, were simply irresistible. At potlucks, I would load up my plate, half with her dish and the other half with sweet treats, reveling in the freedom of choice that comes with large gatherings.
Lunchtime at home during elementary school was another highlight. My sister and I would shout out dollar amounts to Bob Barker on The Price Is Right while my mom expertly flipped gooey grilled cheese sandwiches made with Velveeta. My favorite part was slicing the cheese from its orange block with a thread—it felt like a mini culinary adventure.
In the late 1970s, when processed food reigned supreme, my mom wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about cooking. She aimed for balanced meals, which, back then, meant including something—anything—from each of the four food groups. A classic dinner might involve Tuna Helper paired with canned green beans, and we felt we were doing just fine.
Meal after meal, my mom relied on a team of well-known culinary “assistants” to feed us. Mrs. Grass was always there with her comforting chicken noodle soup, Chef Boyardee prepared our beef ravioli, and Betty Crocker supplied the cake mixes.
Then came the day I opened the pantry to find an unfamiliar package labeled “Ready-to-Eat Corn Flakes.” It looked so bland and unappealing, like it had traveled from some distant, dreary land. This marked the beginning of a shift in our household. Brand-name favorites started disappearing, replaced by generic versions that sucked the joy out of our meals. The arrival of these drab substitutes coincided with my dad’s unemployment, making the generic foods feel even more like a sign of our financial struggles.
“It’s the same food,” my mom insisted, trying to reassure me. “They’re just cheaper because they save on packaging.”
Determined to prove her wrong, I conducted a science fair project comparing generic products against brand names. I meticulously counted shriveled peas and measured cream filling, enlisting my siblings for blind taste tests. Unfortunately for my ego, the generics consistently ranked last. I gleefully presented the results to my mom, expecting victory, but she simply complimented my effort and continued to buy the budget-friendly options.
Eventually, our fortunes improved, and brand-name products made their triumphant return. It took years for me to realize that those familiar, colorful boxes were part of a culinary era often looked down upon. Friends from more affluent backgrounds had never touched them, and I soon learned they weren’t exactly the healthiest choices either.
Now, as a parent, I strive to limit the processed foods in my children’s diets. Yet, like many parents, I also want to share the flavors of my childhood with them. This holiday season, alongside organic turkey and homemade butternut squash soup, we’ll indulge in Pillsbury Sugar Cookies and Stove Top stuffing. I plan to whip up Mock Wild Rice using Campbell’s French Onion Soup, which I’ll proudly declare as “your Grandma’s special recipe.”
In sharing these memories, I hope to pass on a piece of my mother, who is no longer with us. Food is, after all, a powerful way to connect with our past.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s nostalgic memories of growing up with processed foods, sharing insights into family meals and the emotions tied to them. It emphasizes the connection between food and memories, while also addressing the balance parents strive for when feeding their children.
Keyphrase: nostalgia for processed foods
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