Graysen Thompson

Lately, I’ve been on a mission to learn family recipes—the kind that have been passed down for generations, scribbled on recipe cards that look like they survived a war, or just stored in someone’s head. This month, my cousin Bev and I tackled her mom’s cabbage rolls. Let me tell you, this recipe has been in our family forever. And while I may not have nailed the rolling part (more on that later), the experience reminded me why it’s so important to carry these things on.

Here’s the thing: family recipes are more than just food. They’re often the centerpiece of gatherings. They’re expected. They’re cherished. And when the people before us are gone, who carries them forward? Who remembers that they even mattered?

Recipes like these take time, effort, and let’s be honest—sometimes a whole lot of swearing in the kitchen—but they’re also a reflection of love. To make them is to show someone how much you care.

For me, cabbage rolls will always make me think of my Auntie Stella. She was one of the best aunties—someone who loved deeply and made you feel so valued in her home. Bev, her daughter, is such a reflection of that. She loves hard, she leads with family first, and every bite of her cooking tastes like a hug. Cooking with her transported me straight back to that feeling of being so loved and so at home.

Awhile back, I watched a movie called Nona’s (side note: watch it—you’ll never love Vince Vaughn more in your life). The story is about a son trying to recreate his mom’s sauce after she passes, while dreaming of opening a restaurant where real Nonna’s cook the food. Why? Because food made by a Nonna—or an auntie, or a cousin—embodies love. And it’s true.

When I think about the food I grew up with, the magic isn’t just in how good it tasted (though, trust me, it did). It’s in who made it. It’s the memories tucked between the layers of lasagna, or in this case, inside a stubborn cabbage leaf. Those flavors will never mean the same to someone else, because they’re bound up in love and memory unique to me.

So, making cabbage rolls with Bev wasn’t just about learning a recipe. It was about connection. It was about laughing at dumb things (mostly me), and yes, it was about Bev probably re-rolling every single one I touched because those suckers are hard to wrap. It was about filling the kitchen with ABBA and Neil Diamond from Bev’s trusty CD player and suddenly being transported back to Auntie Stella and Uncle Tony’s home, where family always came first.

Now, thanks to Bev’s guidance (and her secret re-rolling operation), we’ve got a year’s supply of cabbage rolls in the freezer. Which means I already know what I’m bringing to the next potluck. More importantly, I walked away with something that will last even longer: the memories of laughter, music, and love wrapped up in each bite.

So, here’s my encouragement: go learn that family recipe. Call up that loved one. Spend the time. Laugh too much. Eat until you can’t move. And carry on the tradition. It’ll mean far more to you—and to the generations before you—than you’ll ever know.