This Meal Stole Everyone’s Heart

I pull the hot bread pan out of the oven. The shaped piece of metal sits on top of a cookie sheet, which, in theory, should help prevent a mess from forming, should the contents of the container overflow. But for me, the chef, it does lead to quite a cumbersome experience.

As I attempt to pull the baking sheet out, the pan slides to the back. Annoyed, I push the sheet back in and grab the bread pan, then I place it on the stovetop. The sizzling sauce sends an amazing, barbeque scent throughout not only the kitchen, but the entire townhome. My belly rumbles, yearning to enjoy my favorite meal of my mother’s repertoire of recipes. But I know how hot the meal is; so, impatiently, I finish frying the potatoes.

A few minutes later, I try to cut into the warm meatloaf, but the strips of bacon laying on top act like a gatekeeper to the prized meal. Irritated, I push the meat back, and again, I slice the meatloaf. This time, the spatula falls with little resistance, and I scoop the slice onto a paper plate. I add the diced potatoes, then head to the table. I crack my soda open, grab a plastic fork, then sit down, the most excited I’ve felt in a long while.

Was my method exactly like my mother’s? Of course not. But who could blame me? I’m a broke college kid, looking for a way to feel at home. Growing up, food was, and still is, a steadfast pillar of my family. The fact that I can replicate my mother’s lauded entree, without her constant supervision, pleases me. But looks are only part of the story. If I didn’t nail the taste, then my efforts would be fruitless.

Ecstatic, I take my fork and dig into the meatloaf. The utensil slides effortlessly through the masterpiece. At least I nailed the texture, I think to myself. I bring the food to my mouth, then I consume.

Yes, yes, yes!

The loaf is moist and meaty, broken up by the soft, savory diced onions. The tangy barbeque sauce that coats the top adds a deep, homemade flavor. This is the definition of home—a warm meal made by loving hands.

Memories flood my mind as I take bite after bite. Then a specific one hits me, truly encapsulating the moment and the dish.

I grew up on a ranch in rural Nevada, and twice a year, we had to complete a branding on the new calves. The work is hard and grueling, with the stubborn animals doing exactly what you don’t want them to do. And if you have an army to help, you need to nourish them. We walk up to the house and enter the cool building. The air is refreshing from the desert heat. But the smell truly takes the show.

I know precisely what we are having by looking at the pan, and I feel giddy. A hard day’s work is paid for with my mother’s famous meatloaf, sitting there, waiting for us to consume.

As we wash up, I hear a helper say, “Oh, I’m not a fan of meatloaf.” This statement takes me by surprise. How could one not love a meal so perfect, one that pleases every craving and biting hunger in the body? As I learned, each person has their own method of making the “best meatloaf,” but this gentleman had clearly never had my mother’s masterpiece.

Because he's a fully grown man, he builds the courage to try some. His reaction is priceless. A formerly revolting meal turned into a truly glorious experience. My mother says it’s because of the barbecue sauce and the bacon—I say it’s her magical talents.

I am unsure where this family treasure came from. As far as I know, it began with my mother, but I think her’s is a rendition of her mother’s. I remember scanning the family cookbook and landing on a barbecue meatloaf submitted by my grandma, but it lacked the bacon and was a bit more complex in the ingredient list. Regardless, my mother may have taken this meal and formed it into the perfect dish I was raised on.

But this, normally, was not a one-meal occasion. Being from a family of six, my mother always prepared more than needed, so leftovers were plentiful. The next dish, while not my personal favorite, stole the heart from my older brother.

It’s stupidly easy—dice the baked potatoes normally served the initial time, fry them up, chop the leftover meatloaf, then add that. In the end, you’re left with a corned beef hash of sorts, save, of course, the corned beef. It’s easy, it’s delicious, and it utilizes every part of the meal, leaving no waste.

Like this afterparty delight, the hardest thing about the preparation of my mother’s meatloaf is the cooking time. The meal takes about an hour to cook, but during the duration, you’re almost tortured with the smell that escapes the hot oven. The loaf requires nothing more than some ground hamburger, a single egg (which, unfortunately, comes at an unbelievable cost these days, but it’s worth it), bacon, barbecue sauce, an onion and seasonings. You start by mixing the hamburger, egg, onion and spices in a bowl by hand. Once it’s all incorporated, you evenly spread it into an oven-safe pan. I know other variations of the dish have you form a loaf on a baking sheet, but my mother taught me a container dish has benefits.

The first is that a pan makes it easier. Sure, you can’t cut it like bread, but you don’t eat it like bread. The second reason is that it is less messy. Tell me honestly—who likes cleaning up? That’s what I thought. The next step, however, is not optional. You slather the loaf in a “spicy” barbecue sauce, and when it’s shiny, you layer on thick slices of bacon. The bacon may not get crispy, but it adds a depth of flavor that gives the dish its praise. You set the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit, place your pan in, and let it cook for one hour.

In short, my mother’s meatloaf is, in my opinion, the best dish she makes. And that’s saying a lot, knowing that her repertoire of recipes is highly praised among whoever tries them. But this meal encapsulates everything amazing about not only her, but the amazing childhood she gave me. I hope you try this family treasure, and I shall print the recipe exactly how it is in the cookbook. Enjoy!

Everyone I feed this to raves about it! Even those who say they don't like meatloaf.

• 1 lb. hamburger (sometimes I double the recipe and use 1 [lb.] sausage)
• 1 egg
• ¾ cup Parmesan cheese
• ½ cup chopped onion
• ½ cup Italian bread crumbs
• ½ cup sour cream
• ⅛ tsp. salt
• 1 tsp. garlic powder
• Spicy Honey BBQ sauce
• Bacon

Mix together and put in a casserole dish. Spread Spicy Honey BBQ sauce (or any type of BBQ sauce) on top. Layer 5 slices of uncooked bacon on top.

Bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees.