If you’re anything like us, being cooped up at home has helped you learn to reappreciate the delicacies of your childhood. Here’s to the good old-fashioned PB&J! Plus the hot dog, and mac ’n’ cheese, and …

When I became the parent at the stove, I skipped the blue box and started making big pans of it from scratch and freezing individual, kid-size portions. My kids are a bit older now, but I dusted off the recipe the other night, and I’m happy to report it was a hit! (I think the kids liked it, too!) After dinner, as I was putting those individual portions into the freezer, I couldn’t help but notice I’d perhaps not-so-subconsciously made the portions a bit larger than your typical kid size. I’ll do my best to save some for them ...—Tyler Thoreson

I’m 10 years old standing in front of my Grandmother “Gaga’s” fridge in her Richmond, Virginia, kitchen. I open the door slowly, and there they are—six little Pyrex glass custard cups filled to the brim with chocolate pudding. Each one is covered with perfectly cut pieces of wax paper. It will be a few hours before Gaga sets them in front of us and we dip our spoons carefully through the thin layer of chocolate skin that forms as they’re cooling.

Though it was made from a boxed mix, it tasted like it was made from scratch. Sometimes we’d pour a little milk on top, which turned it into something closer to a chocolate milkshake and made it last a little longer. When I get a yen for that favorite taste of childhood, I mix my own and pour it just like Gaga did into my own set of little glass Pyrex bowls found at a flea market many years back. It never tastes as good as Gaga’s, but that memory of her wearing her gingham-checked apron (like the one I now wear, seen at left) standing in front of her Hotpoint stirring that dark concoction oh-so-carefully with her worn wooden pudding spoon is almost as good.—Mary Randolph Carter

Peanut butter, jelly, bread. How can such a simple combination be so irresistible, so … the kind of thing you never, no matter how much you eat, seem to get sick of? It’s not the mix of savory and sweet, or at least it’s not only that. Nor is it really the bread, which is but a mere vehicle for more intense flavors. The secret, of course, lies in the peanut butter itself. Because—as I’m rediscovering through all these weeks quarantined at home—that stuff is magic. It makes virtually everything better. Apples? Yes! Bananas? You know it! Saltine crackers? If you must! And I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to that snack-time staple of celery with a few raisins on top—better known to kindergarteners as ants on a log.

These days, every hour or two I seem to find myself wandering into the kitchen for a drive-by. I tell myself it’s to take a screen break, but the real reason is that I’m looking for something to put a schmear of PB on—ideally a fluffy slice of bread, topped with a generous slather of strawberry jam. As a result, I’d have to say my PB&J intake has roughly quintupled over the past few weeks. And you know what? I’m OK with that. There are countless ways I’m longing for my life to return to “normal,” but this isn’t one of them.—TT