I had the best broccoli casserole recipe. Then I lost it

When it comes to Thanksgiving dinners, the main course is pretty well established.

People eat turkey. Do they like turkey? I choose the alternative choice: ham. Turkey is too dry, too difficult to cook, and it’s one of those foods that’s actually better as leftovers anyway. But it’s one of those established Thanksgiving traditions that will never change. Cook a giant bird, stick it on the dining room table and people will have a field day. (Attempts to carve it often make for good holiday comedy.)

That leaves us with side dishes. This is where things get creative and there is truly a competition for the best.

Stuffing is popular, sure, but man, bad stuffing is bad food. The same goes for dressing. Mac and cheese, mashed potatoes (the real best target for gravy), cranberry sauce (I never really believe people when they say they really like it). The coleslaw is surprisingly good.

This all made me think of broccoli casserole. This is a nice little Thanksgiving staple in many families. (That or its first cousin, inferior green bean casserole. Come on, people. Do better.) It’s also one of those foods that looks like something your grandmother made and only the older people like but which, in fact, are quite delicious.

Thanksgiving Made Me Think of Broccoli Casserole

And now I’m a senior citizen (older, anyway), and my grandmother made it happen. She even gave me a recipe, written on a card, one of those inspiring examples of a recipe passed down from generation to generation and…

Then I lost it.

I lost it too. She died, I kept the recipe for a few years and couldn’t find it anymore. I don’t know how many times I’ve moved since she gave me the recipe – once across the country. Today I would just take a photo of it and keep it in the Photos app on my phone, where I still couldn’t find it. But at least I would feel more modern about it all.

I know what you’re thinking. Well, I know two things you’re thinking. The first is, what an idiot. Fair enough. Guilty on all counts. The other is that broccoli casserole isn’t really a difficult dish to make. I mean, there’s a recipe right there on the side of the can of cream of mushroom soup. (Only now it is accessible with a QR code.)

But you’re missing the point. (Well, not about that idiocy.) I’ve made broccoli casserole several times since my grandmother died. And it never tasted the same. I tried all kinds of variations, changed the proportions, added this or that (I have to say that the cayenne pepper gives it a bit of heat). Some recipes are better than others, but none taste like her recipe. I don’t remember if there was a secret ingredient – unlikely, she wasn’t that kind of cook – or if she put more cheese or fried onions in it. I don’t know. But something is missing.

And this wasn’t the first broccoli casserole I’d eaten.

A dish that gave rise to a confrontation

A quick note on how I got the recipe. Betsi Robinson was a reporter at the Winston-Salem Journal, where I first worked. She taught me how to be a night reporter. (She was, and is, sweet and charming and tough.) One evening she invited me to dinner with her and her husband, and she served broccoli casserole.

I had never eaten it and didn’t like the way it looked. (There’s nothing appetizing about using cream of mushroom soup in any iteration.) But I was in a phase where I didn’t allow myself to eat anything between meals, so I was hungry. I tried it and loved it. I told my grandmother about it and she said, oh, I’ll give you a recipe for how to make it.

My broccoli casserole prowess has gone to my head

This sounds like a great story, but it went to my head. I turned on Betsi. Later, I challenged her specifically, and writing in general, to a broccoli and casserole competition. The power was too much for me to handle. I don’t remember all the details but it’s a safe bet she put me in my place, and rightfully so. Maybe my grandmother’s recipe will always taste better to me. Or maybe everyone in the editorial office was tired of hearing how successful I was.

But come on, who are we kidding here? The reason my broccoli casserole never really tastes good to me is because my grandmother didn’t make it. You could gather a group of chefs and food scientists and fry cooks and restaurant influencers to work together to recreate it, and it would still never taste the same.

Nothing ever does. It’s a big part of Thanksgiving dinner. Food is important, of course – it’s hard to dine without it. But it’s less about the food itself and more about who prepares and eats it. Seriously, does anyone eat salad dressing any other time of year? Why would they? Food, no matter how much you like it (or not), is really just a delivery system between friends and relatives. And when one of those friends or relatives is taken out of the equation, the taste just isn’t the same.

Nothing else either.

Bill’s almost-but-not-quite Grandma’s Broccoli Casserole

Since I lost my grandmother’s recipe, I stick to the basics and then try to fudge it a little. Currently I use French because they make the onions that go into it and because I like their yellow mustard. I swap out the cheddar for a spicy shredded cheese, like nacho mix with pepper jack, and add more than a pinch of cayenne pepper for fun.

Given : 16 servings

Ingredients:

2 cans (10 ½ ounces each) condensed cream of mushroom soup
1 cup of milk
½ teaspoon black pepper, or more to taste
2 pounds frozen broccoli florets, cooked and drained.
2 cups shredded cheddar cheese, divided (I substitute spicy shredded cheese mixture)
1 container (6 ounces) fried onions, divided – yes, the whole container
Cayenne pepper, to taste

Instructions:

Preheat oven to 350°.
Combine soup, milk and black pepper in a large bowl. Add the cooked broccoli, 1 cup cheese, 1 cup onions and a dash (or more, depending on your preference) of cayenne pepper.
Pour everything into a lightly greased 13×9 baking dish and cover with foil.
Bake for 30 minutes, remove from oven and remove foil. Stir and sprinkle with remaining cheese and onions. Bake for another 5 to 10 minutes, or a little longer. This is what I do because I like everything to be a little crunchy.
Serve and expect praise and awe.

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