From vegoutmag.com
By Avery White
The secret to your next favourite comfort meal might be hidden in your grandmother’s recipe box, waiting to surprise you
You know what’s funny? Long before “vegan” became a lifestyle, a movement, or a hashtag, our grandparents were quietly making hearty, plant-based meals without even realizing it.
They didn’t have Pinterest boards or oat milk lattes, and they definitely weren’t talking about “macros.” But they knew how to stretch a sack of beans, make a stew from whatever was in the garden, and turn leftovers into comfort food that stuck to your ribs.
In those days, meat was expensive. Fresh vegetables were seasonal and precious. People cooked with what they had, which often meant simple, plant-centred meals that just happened to check every box of modern “vegan” eating.
They weren’t being trendy. They were just being practical.
Let’s take a trip back to those roots—the dishes that defined comfort and resourcefulness, long before anyone called it plant-based cuisine.
1) Lentil soup
If there’s one dish that every culture has its own version of, it’s lentil soup.
Whether it’s Mediterranean lentil stew, Indian dahl, or a simple farmhouse soup made with pantry staples, this humble bowl of goodness has stood the test of time.
My grandmother used to make hers with brown lentils, onions, carrots, and a handful of whatever herbs she’d plucked from the garden that morning. Sometimes she’d toss in a potato for thickness or stir in a splash of vinegar at the end for brightness.
She didn’t have a recipe card. She had instincts.
That’s what I love about these older recipes. They weren’t about precision. They were about using your senses: the smell of simmering broth, the way a spoonful felt on your tongue, the color of the lentils when they softened just right.
Today, I like to modernize it with smoked paprika or kale, but the heart of it remains the same. A pot of lentil soup is more than food. It’s a story of resilience, simplicity, and nourishment.
2) Potato pancakes
Who didn’t grow up eating some version of crispy, golden potato pancakes?
They went by different names: latkes in Jewish households, boxty in Irish kitchens, raggmunk in Scandinavia. But the spirit was universal. Take a humble potato and make it delicious.
These were often made with just grated potatoes, a bit of flour, salt, and maybe a splash of water. Eggs were optional, depending on what was available that week. The lack of luxury ingredients made them affordable, plant-based, and endlessly satisfying.
I remember standing beside my grandmother as she fried them in her cast-iron pan, the air thick with that cozy, sizzling aroma. She’d tell me stories about the Depression, about how meals had to be stretched and reinvented.
“Nothing goes to waste,” she’d say, pressing the pancakes flat with her spatula. “Not food, not effort.”
She probably didn’t realize that lesson would stick with me far more than any recipe ever could.
Serve them with applesauce, vegan sour cream, or even a drizzle of hot sauce if you want a modern twist. They’re proof that simplicity never goes out of style.
3) Cabbage and bean stew
If you grew up anywhere near a farm or had a grandparent who did, you probably know the magic of cabbage and beans.
This dish isn’t glamorous. It doesn’t photograph well. But it’s the kind of meal that warms you from the inside out.
Cabbage, onion, and beans simmered slowly in tomato broth or seasoned water. It’s proof that comfort doesn’t have to come from fancy ingredients.
In Eastern Europe, this might have been a peasant dish. In the American South, it showed up as “soup beans and greens.” Across the Mediterranean, it became hearty minestrone. Wherever it was made, it carried the same DNA: resourcefulness, thrift, and care.
I still make a version of this on rainy Sundays, with cannellini beans, shredded cabbage, and a touch of olive oil. Sometimes I’ll add carrots or kale, but honestly, the basic three ingredients are all you really need.
Food like this reminds me that nourishment has nothing to do with how complicated something is. It’s about intention.
4) Cornbread and beans
This is the kind of meal that defined whole regions.
In the American South, cornbread and beans weren’t just dinner. They were survival food. Cornmeal was cheap, beans were filling, and together they created a meal that could feed an entire family with minimal resources.
What’s interesting is how naturally plant-based this pairing is. Traditional recipes didn’t rely on butter or milk because those ingredients weren’t always available. The cornbread was made with oil or lard substitutes, and the beans simmered with herbs and spices for flavor.
My grandparents didn’t talk about “protein pairing,” but that’s exactly what they were doing. Corn and beans together make a complete protein, something nutritionists later celebrated as a cornerstone of balanced vegan diets.
It’s a quiet reminder that wisdom often came long before science gave it a name.
These days, I make skillet cornbread with oat milk and a touch of maple syrup for sweetness. I ladle smoky pinto beans on top, sprinkle a little chili powder, and it feels like coming home.
5) Tomato sandwiches
When summer rolled around, there was one lunch that ruled above all others: the tomato sandwich.
Thick, sun-warmed tomato slices, a pinch of salt, and a swipe of mayo on soft white bread. That was it. No protein powders, no “superfoods,” just real, ripe flavour.
In rural households, especially during harvest season, tomatoes were everywhere. You didn’t let them go bad, so you found simple ways to enjoy them. Sometimes it was with olive oil and vinegar, other times with a sprinkle of sugar if they were too tart.
I can still picture my grandfather standing by the garden, tomato in one hand, salt shaker in the other. He’d bite into it like it was an apple. No ceremony, no fuss.
Today, I use vegan mayo and whole-grain bread, but the feeling is the same: pure, fresh, uncomplicated joy.
And honestly, it’s the kind of meal that makes you pause. It reminds you that eating well doesn’t have to mean overcomplicating things. It’s about savouring what’s already perfect.
6) Vegetable pot pie
There’s something beautifully nostalgic about a bubbling pot pie coming out of the oven.
The golden crust, the steam curling up from the filling, it’s the culinary equivalent of a hug.
But what most people forget is that early versions of pot pie were often meatless. Farmers and homemakers used whatever vegetables were leftover from the week: carrots, potatoes, peas, onions. Meat was too expensive to use regularly, so it became a luxury addition, not the star.
In that way, the original pot pies were “accidentally vegan.”
When I make it now, I use coconut oil for the crust and almond milk in the gravy. I’ll toss in mushrooms, leeks, and a few handfuls of spinach for good measure.
Each bite feels like a connection to the past, to a time when people didn’t need dietary labels to eat mindfully. They just respected their ingredients and worked with what the earth gave them.
It’s grounding, really. Cooking this way makes me feel like I’m participating in something older than trends, something human, honest, and enduring.
7) Rice pudding
Let’s end with dessert, shall we?
Rice pudding was the great equalizer in many kitchens. It turned leftover rice, something no one wanted to waste, into a sweet, creamy treat that could feed a crowd.
The basic ingredients were simple: rice, milk, sugar, and cinnamon. And if milk wasn’t available, water worked just fine. It was all about slow cooking and patience.
I remember the scent of it filling the kitchen after dinner, the gentle bubbling of the pot as my grandmother stirred with an old wooden spoon. She’d always tell me, “Don’t rush sweetness, it comes when it’s ready.”
When I make rice pudding now, I use coconut milk for that rich, velvety texture and add a hint of cardamom. Sometimes I stir in raisins or a splash of vanilla, depending on what’s around.
It’s incredible how something so simple can feel so indulgent. That’s the beauty of recipes born from frugality. They teach you that joy doesn’t depend on extravagance.
Final thoughts
When I first transitioned to a vegan lifestyle, I worried I’d have to let go of my family’s food traditions. But as I cooked more, I realized I wasn’t abandoning them. I was continuing them.
Our grandparents didn’t need buzzwords or cookbooks to eat consciously. They relied on intuition, on what grew in their gardens, and on the wisdom passed down through generations.
What we now call “vegan” was once just “dinner.”
There’s something deeply humbling about that. These old dishes remind us that sustainability and compassion don’t always come from innovation. They often come from remembering.
So maybe the best way to honour our roots isn’t to reinvent everything, but to revisit what already worked: simple food, made with love, and shared with others.
Because in the end, plant-based eating isn’t just about what’s on the plate. It’s about reconnecting with nature, with history, and with the generations who quietly paved the way long before we gave it a name.
https://vegoutmag.com/food-and-drink/z-7-plant-based-dishes-your-grandparents-probably-made-without-calling-them-vegan/
