1. Green Bean Casserole
There was always one aunt who insisted green bean casserole was “a classic,” even though the crunchy onions on top were usually the only part anyone touched. The green beans were always kind of mushy, swimming in some weird mushroom soup mixture that had the consistency of wet cement. Still, it showed up on the table every Thanksgiving without fail, like it had a standing invitation. Nobody dared question its presence, even though everyone side-eyed it like a guest who had overstayed their welcome says Good Housekeeping.
We all knew it would be there, nestled between the stuffing and mashed potatoes, and yet it somehow surprised us every time. Occasionally, someone would take a spoonful out of guilt or curiosity and immediately regret it. It didn’t matter if the rest of the meal was delicious—this thing always brought down the vibe. But out of tradition, there it sat, year after year, unloved but unbothered adds Southern Living.
2. Canned Cranberry Sauce
You know the one—perfectly cylindrical, ridged like a tin can, and plopped out onto a plate with a dramatic “squelch.” For some reason, it wasn’t considered a real holiday meal without that jiggly tower of gelatinous cranberry something. It didn’t even try to look like real food, but there it was, sliced into little discs like we were supposed to be grateful for it. Some brave soul would always take a sliver, maybe spread it on a roll, then forget about it completely shares Scientific American.
There were homemade versions, sure, but somehow the canned one kept coming back like it had diplomatic immunity. Kids avoided it like vegetables, and adults mostly ignored it unless they wanted to feel nostalgic. We all acted like it belonged, even if no one could really explain why. It wasn’t about taste—it was about duty says Taste of Home.
3. Fruitcake
This was the one dessert that sat untouched on the sideboard while everyone else went for the pie. It was dense, heavy, and packed with suspiciously colored “fruit” that looked more like gems than anything edible. If you accidentally bit into one of those neon green pieces, you instantly regretted your life choices. It had the consistency of a doorstop and the taste of regret.
And yet, every Christmas, someone proudly presented it like it was the crown jewel of the dessert table. “It’s tradition,” they’d say, as if that excused the flavor crime we were about to witness. It usually ended up getting sliced and politely hidden in napkins or left to fossilize in the fridge. We kept pretending it had a rightful place, but deep down, we all knew better.
4. Ambrosia Salad
There’s something both charming and horrifying about a “salad” made of marshmallows, whipped topping, canned fruit, and sometimes—if things really got out of hand—coconut. It was the kind of dish that made kids excited and adults slightly concerned. Every bite was a weird mix of textures and a sugar overload that didn’t belong anywhere near dinner. But every Easter or Christmas, it was back like clockwork.
People would smile and say, “Oh, that takes me back,” before discreetly pushing it to the edge of their plate. No one really liked it, but no one wanted to be the one to kill off Grandma’s signature dish. So it kept showing up, wobbling in a glass bowl, a pastel sugar bomb we pretended to tolerate. Tradition is a powerful thing.
5. Jell-O Mold
Ah yes, the towering gelatin sculpture filled with fruit, marshmallows, or—if you were really unlucky—shredded carrots. It jiggled ominously as it was carried to the table like some kind of alien centerpiece. People would compliment its appearance, but no one ever reached for it with any real enthusiasm. It looked more like a decoration than a side dish.
There was always a sense of confusion about where it belonged—was it dessert? A side? An art project? You’d take a slice just to be polite, but the moment it hit your tongue, regret set in fast. Despite that, it kept coming back to the holiday table like an old family friend you couldn’t quite disinvite. Some things just refuse to retire.
6. Sweet Potato Casserole with Marshmallows
There’s something about turning a root vegetable into dessert and then calling it a side dish that feels a little dishonest. Topped with a blanket of melted marshmallows, it was more sugar than substance. It sounded like it should be good, but it always ended up cloyingly sweet with a weirdly gritty texture. You’d think the marshmallows would help, but they just made it even more confusing.
Still, it was always there, usually baked in a glass dish that had been in the family for decades. Someone always said, “You have to try it!” like it was a rite of passage. We’d all take a bite and then chase it down with something savory to reset our taste buds. Nobody ever finished their portion, but somehow it made the cut every single year.
7. Pickled Herring
If you had Scandinavian roots—or just one ambitious relative—you might’ve been subjected to this pungent little number at Christmas. It came in a jar, smelled like low tide, and had the texture of sadness. Someone would insist it was “a delicacy” and serve it with rye bread and onions like that made it less terrifying. The rest of us would smile awkwardly and back away slowly.
It didn’t matter how much you loved your family—you never loved this dish. But because it meant something to someone’s grandma, it stayed on the table, stinking up the room. We all just quietly prayed no one would pass it our way. It was the edible equivalent of an awkward family story—present and unavoidable.
8. Oyster Dressing
Now this one was always met with a bit of a side-eye. Regular stuffing? Yes, please. But someone always had to get fancy and toss oysters into the mix, and suddenly what should’ve been comforting turned weirdly fishy. You’d brace yourself for that ocean-flavored bite and try not to make a face.
The texture alone was enough to throw people off—it was soggy in a way that didn’t feel quite right. Some people swore by it, calling it “coastal tradition,” but most of us just quietly opted for the plain stuff instead. Still, it showed up every year, baked in a special dish and guarded by the person who brought it. It was one of those things you tolerated because holidays are about compromise, right?
9. Boiled Brussels Sprouts
They weren’t roasted or seasoned or crisped up in any way—they were just…boiled. Limp, bitter, and steaming, they filled the kitchen with a smell that announced their presence before they even hit the table. No amount of butter or salt could fully rescue them. Yet, there they were, sitting in a sad little bowl next to the rolls.
Some brave soul always tried to dress them up, maybe with bacon or a splash of vinegar, but it never helped. You’d take one, maybe two, and then push them around your plate hoping no one noticed. They weren’t a crowd-pleaser, but apparently someone thought they were necessary. Every holiday meal needs a villain, and boiled Brussels sprouts wore the crown.
10. Waldorf Salad
This one always felt like it belonged at a tea party, not a holiday feast. Apples, celery, walnuts, and mayo don’t exactly scream festive comfort food. The flavors didn’t mesh—they just sort of coexisted awkwardly in a bowl. It was like the ingredients were having a disagreement and refused to cooperate.
Still, it found a home on the holiday table, usually served in a fancy glass dish with a lettuce leaf no one ate. People would say, “It’s refreshing!” while secretly wishing it had been swapped for another helping of mashed potatoes. You’d take a bite and immediately question your choices. But there it was, year after year, looking fancy and tasting…not.
11. Liver Pâté
If you came from a certain kind of family, there was always a small dish of liver pâté on the appetizer table like it was a delicacy. But to most of us, it just looked like someone had pureed a dare. It was spreadable, yes—but what it spread was dread. You’d try to mask it with crackers or pickles, but that distinct liver flavor always found a way to dominate.
Still, someone always said it was “rich” or “old-world” and acted like not liking it was the real crime. You’d nod politely and take the tiniest scoop possible, then hope no one noticed you hiding it under a napkin. It stayed in the rotation because of some great-uncle’s memory, not because it was a hit. But tradition’s got a stronger grip than tastebuds ever will.