The Ultimate Thanksgiving Side Dish Tier List: What You Think You're Bringing vs. What People Actually Eat
Photo: Thanksgiving table full of side dishes food spread overhead view, via thumbs.dreamstime.com
Thanksgiving is America's most ambitious potluck. Every year, families across the country assemble a table groaning with dishes that range from transcendent to genuinely baffling, all while pretending the turkey is the main event. (It's not. The turkey is fine. The turkey is a delivery vehicle for gravy. We all know this.)
What truly matters — what has always mattered — is the sides. And yet not all sides are created equal. Some are beloved. Some are performative. Some exist purely because Aunt Carol made them in 1987 and now removing them would cause a family rift that would outlast several marriages.
We ranked them all. Brutally. Lovingly. Accurately.
S-Tier: The Untouchable Royalty
Mashed Potatoes
The undisputed champion. The reason everyone is here. If the Thanksgiving table were a solar system, mashed potatoes would be the sun and everything else would be orbiting it at varying distances of relevance.
No one has ever left a Thanksgiving table saying "the mashed potatoes were fine but I'm glad we had that roasted beet salad." Mashed potatoes can be bad — underseasoned, lumpy, somehow both watery and dry — and they will still run out first. That is power. That is legacy.
Perceived prestige: Everyone knows this is the cornerstone. No one is showing off by bringing mashed potatoes. Actual consumption: The bowl will be scraped. The spoon will be licked. Someone will quietly take the leftovers home in a Ziploc bag they brought specifically for this purpose.
Gravy
Technically a sauce. Spiritually a side dish. Practically a religion.
Gravy is the great unifier. It improves the turkey. It saves dry stuffing. It transforms mashed potatoes from good to transcendent. A bad gravy ruins Thanksgiving. A great gravy is never mentioned because it's assumed — like oxygen.
Perceived prestige: Zero. No one brags about their gravy. Actual consumption: Every drop.
A-Tier: Deeply Beloved, No Notes
Stuffing (or Dressing, Depending on Your Regional Loyalties)
Stuffing is the side dish that has the most passionate defenders per capita. People have opinions about stuffing the way other people have opinions about politics: loudly, emotionally, and with zero interest in compromise.
Cornbread stuffing versus classic bread stuffing. Oyster stuffing (a choice). Sausage and sage versus vegetarian. Inside the bird versus baked separately, which is apparently a dealbreaker in certain zip codes.
Here's the truth: all stuffing is good. Even bad stuffing is good. It's bread that absorbed the flavor of everything around it and then got slightly crispy on top. This is not a complicated formula.
Perceived prestige: High. Stuffing people are proud. Actual consumption: Extremely high. The pan is a battlefield.
Sweet Potato Casserole with Marshmallows
Is this a side dish or a dessert that wandered over to the wrong table? Genuinely unclear. Does it matter? Absolutely not.
The marshmallow topping is divisive among adults and universally beloved by anyone under twelve. The people who hate it still eat it. They eat it while maintaining eye contact with whoever made it, silently communicating something complicated about boundaries and family dynamics.
Perceived prestige: The person who brings this feels like they've contributed something whimsical and fun. Actual consumption: Gone. Scraped. The marshmallows go first.
B-Tier: Solid Citizens of the Thanksgiving Table
Green Bean Casserole
A dish that has no business being as good as it is. Canned green beans, cream of mushroom soup, and those crispy fried onions from a can — this is not fine dining. This is not even trying to be fine dining. And yet it works. It has always worked. It will continue to work.
Perceived prestige: Low. This is humble food. Actual consumption: Respectable. The crispy onions disappear first.
Cranberry Sauce (The Canned Kind)
We're not talking about the artisan cranberry relish with orange zest and a sprig of rosemary. We're talking about the cylindrical situation that comes out of the can with the ridges still intact, sliced into perfect discs and placed on a plate like a geological sample.
This is comfort. This is nostalgia. This is a dish that exists entirely because someone's grandmother served it and now removing it would be an act of aggression.
Perceived prestige: Ironically high among people who grew up with it. Actual consumption: A respectable showing. Every table has the one person who eats three slices in silence.
C-Tier: Present, Appreciated by Some, Mostly Decorative
Roasted Brussels Sprouts
Someone at this table has been to a farmers market recently. Someone at this table reads food blogs. The Brussels sprouts are beautifully caramelized with pancetta and a balsamic glaze and they are, objectively, delicious.
They will not run out. There will be leftovers. The person who made them will eat them for lunch on Friday and feel quietly superior about it.
Perceived prestige: Very high among the person who made them. Actual consumption: A polite amount. Enough to be complimentary. Not enough to matter.
Dinner Rolls
The rolls are infrastructure. No one talks about the rolls. No one compliments the rolls. And yet if the rolls weren't there, something would feel profoundly wrong. The rolls exist to carry butter to your mouth and to soak up gravy and to give you something to do with your hands during tense family conversations.
Perceived prestige: None. Actual consumption: Steady and consistent. The rolls are the backbone of this operation.
D-Tier: Someone Brought This and We Have Questions
The Ambitious Salad
Every few years, someone decides Thanksgiving needs "something fresh." They arrive with a kale salad featuring pomegranate seeds, candied walnuts, goat cheese, and a homemade lemon vinaigrette. It's beautiful. It's seasonal. It's completely incongruous with the seventeen other dishes on the table.
The salad will sit largely untouched while people pile their plates with carbohydrates and gravy. On Saturday, someone will eat it for breakfast and feel briefly virtuous before finishing the stuffing cold, straight from the container.
Perceived prestige: The salad-bringer thinks they're being thoughtful. Actual consumption: Minimal. Tragic, honestly.
The Honest Conclusion
Here is the truth that no one in your family will say out loud: approximately 75% of the Thanksgiving table exists to justify the mashed potatoes and to give people something to do between servings of mashed potatoes. The rest of it is tradition, love, and the quiet understanding that some dishes earn their place not by being eaten but by simply being there.
Bring what you want. Make what makes you happy. And when someone asks you to try the Brussels sprouts, nod warmly, take a small portion, and quietly return to the mashed potatoes.
They'll understand. They're doing the same thing.