Here's my latest column:

Some say it was first stirred by a camp cook in Virginia. Others swear by a Georgia hunting tale.

But along the winding backroads throughout the mountains, Brunswick stew found another home – in church basements, smokehouses and backyard kettles.

Brunswick stew is a hearty, slow-simmered blend of meat, vegetables and smoke. It’s somewhere between a soup and barbecue.

Origins

Both Brunswick County, Virginia, and the city of Brunswick, Georgia, claim the title. The Virginia version traces back to 1828, when an enslaved man named Jimmy Matthews is said to have cooked the first batch for a hunting party, combining squirrel meat with onions, stale bread and whatever else was on hand.

The Georgian legend tells of a similar concoction bubbling in a pot for a group of politicians. Over the centuries, both stories have gained regional pride, with festivals, roadside signs and bragging rights attached.

The dish traveled up the barbecue and hunting routes that link the coastal South to the hills, settling wherever a cast-iron pot and a crowd could be found.

And while it is not an original mountain creation, it is certainly at home here – especially in Appalachian Virginia, western North Carolina, and north Georgia. As the dish moved inland and up into the hills, Appalachians made it their own.

Ingredients

Geography has always been a defining ingredient in Appalachian food. What grew or grazed nearby determined what ended up on the table.

The earliest mountain versions of Brunswick stew didn’t follow a recipe so much as a rhythm: a base of smoked or stewed meat, plenty of vegetables and a long day of slow cooking over a wood fire.

When times were lean, squirrel or rabbit might fill the pot. When times were better, it was pork or chicken. In either case, the stew served the same purpose – to feed a crowd, to warm the bones and to stretch a little into a lot.

In contrast to the coastal versions that might lean sweeter or saucier, Appalachian Brunswick stew tends to be heartier and smokier. Most commonly, Brunswick stew here features pulled pork or shredded chicken, slow-cooked until tender, with corn and lima beans adding bursts of texture.

The tomatoes give it tang, and a touch of barbecue sauce or vinegar adds depth. Some cooks thicken it until it’s almost scoopable with a fork, while others leave it brothy, better suited for a cold mountain evening.

Legacy

The dish reflects the Appalachian ethos of thrift and respect for ingredients. Nothing went to waste. Leftover meats from the smokehouse, canned vegetables put up the previous summer, even scraps of stale cornbread could find their way into the mix. This practical approach transformed necessity into heritage, making dishes like Brunswick stew a living testament to Appalachian resourcefulness.

In some communities, Brunswick stew would be one offering in what’s known as “stew outs.” Families or church congregations would set up cast-iron kettles outdoors, stirring for hours with wooden paddles, the scent of tomatoes and smoke curling through the air. It wasn’t just about the food. It was about the fellowship. People brought what they had, contributed to the pot, and left with full bellies and fuller hearts.

In a region too often misunderstood or oversimplified, dishes like Brunswick stew remind us that Appalachian food isn’t poor food. It’s proud food – deeply rooted in creativity, community, and endurance. It’s not just about who invented it, but who keeps it alive. And in Appalachia, that means everyone who still believes that the best meals are the ones shared – slow-cooked, smoky, and steeped in history.

My latest column in the Charleston Gazette-Mail:

Tucked along the Allegheny River in western Pennsylvania, Natrona Bottling Company has been quietly preserving a fizzy slice of history for nearly 120 years.

Founded in 1904 in the mill town of Natrona, the company is one of the last surviving independent bottlers in the country still making soda the old-fashioned way.

For generations, its iconic Red Ribbon line of sodas and specialty flavors have carried forward a distinctly Appalachian story — one of resilience, craftsmanship and community.

Natrona Bottling began at a time when Appalachia’s industrial towns were booming with steel mills, coal operations and glass factories. Soda was both a luxury and a symbol of modern convenience, and local bottlers popped up to meet demand.

Unlike the sweeping national brands that would later dominate the market, Natrona’s early success came from its devotion to local tastes and its ties to the working-class communities in Pennsylvania’s Appalachian foothills. Their product wasn’t mass-produced; it was handcrafted, carbonated with genuine dry ice, and bottled in glass that could be reused again and again.

One of Natrona’s most enduring contributions has been its devotion to tradition. While Coca-Cola and Pepsi embraced high-fructose corn syrup and automated bottling decades ago, Natrona held fast to pure cane sugar and the hands-on methods that set it apart.

That commitment to craft resonates deeply in Appalachia, a region where hand-made, small-batch and family-driven enterprises have long defined the cultural landscape.

Just as Appalachian quiltmakers or fiddlers preserve traditions through practice rather than mass production, Natrona Bottling treats each batch of soda like an heirloom passed down through generations. The company’s longevity is a testament to the Appalachian ethic of doing more with less, surviving downturns and valuing authenticity over scale.

Natrona’s flagship line, Red Ribbon, is a love letter to regional taste buds. Classics like cherry, root beer, and ginger ale evoke the soda fountains and corner stores that dotted Appalachian towns throughout the 20th century.

More adventurous offerings, like their Jamaica’s Finest Ginger Beer, cater to those who crave bold spice and a nostalgic burn. Red Ribbon Cherry Supreme is another popular choice.

Natrona’s sodas made their way through coal towns, steel mill camps and general stores across the upper Appalachian region, traveling along rail lines and winding roads.

Like much of Appalachia, Natrona’s surrounding community suffered from deindustrialization as steel mills closed and jobs disappeared. Many local businesses shuttered, unable to compete with corporate giants.

But Natrona doubled down on its heritage. They leaned into their identity as one of the few authentic bottlers left, catering not just to nostalgic locals but also to a growing national audience of craft soda enthusiasts. In doing so, they mirrored the Appalachian narrative of resilience — finding ways to endure in a changing economy by leaning on authenticity and tradition.

Natrona Bottling remains as a symbol. It represents the endurance of small family businesses in a region often defined by economic struggle. It embodies the Appalachian value of holding tight to heritage while still adapting to new audiences.

More than just a soda, Natrona is a story—one that bubbles up from Appalachia’s industrial past and carries its flavors forward into the present. It’s proof that tradition, when cared for and celebrated, can be as refreshing and enduring as the first sip from a glass bottle on a hot day.

Here's my latest column for the newspaper:

Chicken of the woods is one of the most recognizable wild mushrooms in Appalachia — its neon hues standing out like a burst of sunlight on the forest floor.

Scientifically known as “Laetiporus sulphureus,” this striking fungus grows in large, overlapping shelves that range from deep pumpkin orange to pale, buttery yellow.

Its ruffled edges and layered form can make it look almost ornamental, but for seasoned foragers, it’s a signal of something far more valuable — a hearty, seasonal ingredient that has been part of Appalachian food traditions for generations.

Chicken of the woods typically grows on hardwoods like oak, cherry, and beech, most often emerging from dead trunks and stumps. Sometimes, it will even appear on fallen logs or weakened living trees, continuing to fruit for years from the same spot.

The name “chicken of the woods” comes from its firm texture and mild, savory flavor, which many compare to chicken. Younger mushrooms are tender and almost juicy, making them ideal for cooking, while older mushrooms can become tough and woody, better suited for making broth or flavoring a dish rather than being the main event.

In Appalachia, chicken of the woods appears most often from late summer through early autumn, though in especially wet and warm years it can pop up in spring. Alongside ramps in April, morels in May, and pawpaws in September, it holds a place in the forager’s seasonal calendar — a mental map of when and where to find nature’s best offerings.

The mushroom can be sautéed in butter, fried to a crisp, roasted to bring out its natural umami, or simmered in soups and stews for a deep, savory flavor. In Appalachian kitchens, cooks have long treated it like poultry, breading and pan-frying it for sandwiches, tucking it into flaky pot pies, or serving it alongside garden vegetables like green beans, squash, and potatoes. Its faintly lemony flavor works beautifully in pasta dishes, stir-fries, and even tacos. For vegetarian cooks, chicken of the woods can take center stage as a meat substitute; its dense, chewy texture holds up well to hearty preparations and doesn’t disappear into a dish the way softer vegetables might.

Beyond its taste, chicken of the woods is an emblem of Appalachian resourcefulness — making use of what’s available, when it’s available. Foraging in the region has always been about more than just food; it’s a tradition that ties people to the land, passing down plant and mushroom knowledge from one generation to the next.

In the forest, finding a flush of chicken of the woods can feel like uncovering buried treasure. The bright color draws the eye from a distance, and the satisfaction of spotting it is often matched by the anticipation of what it will become in the kitchen. Whether fried and drizzled with local honey, tucked into a creamy casserole, or paired with biscuits and white gravy, it embodies the spirit of Appalachian cooking — rooted in the land, unpretentious, and always ready to feed a crowd.

Disclaimer: While its striking appearance makes chicken of the woods relatively easy to spot, experts advise that mushroom identification should always be done with care. Foraging guides, local mycology clubs, and experienced harvesters can help confirm species and ensure safe preparation.

Here's my latest newspaper column:

Forget trendy seltzers and flashy energy drinks. In the heart of Appalachia, loyalty comes in a green bottle.

For over a century, Ale-8-One has fizzed its way into the region’s identity, offering a sharp ginger-citrus kick that tastes like home to generations of Kentuckians.

The story of Ale-8-One began in Winchester, Kentucky, in 1926. It was the invention of G.L. Wainscott, a soft drink bottler and entrepreneur who had spent years experimenting with flavors and studying European ginger-based sodas.

Wainscott returned to Kentucky with the idea of creating a beverage that was light and refreshing, yet still spicy enough to stand out from the colas and root beers popular at the time.

Inspired by the bold flavor of ginger beer — “spicy and hot to the palate” — Wainscott began experimenting, gradually softening the spice while refining the overall taste.

“He worked to perfect his recipe until he found it. The combination of ginger with citrus was just right: not too hot and not too sweet,” the company’s website explains. The result was a drink less sugary than traditional ginger ale, with bright citrus undertones and a subtle, lingering bite — a flavor profile that would become distinctly Appalachian.

At the time, naming a product was just as important as the flavor. Wainscott held a public naming contest and selected “A Late One” — a playful nod to it being the latest entry in the crowded soft drink market. Eventually, the name was stylized as “Ale-8-One,” and the product began gaining popularity throughout the Bluegrass region.

Today, most people simply call it Ale-8. The abbreviated nickname rolls off the tongue more easily, and the branding reinforces it: On the iconic green bottle, the “8” is bold and prominent, while the “1” is smaller and often overlooked.

Unlike national soda brands that spread quickly through franchising and aggressive marketing, Ale-8 kept its distribution tight. For decades, it was only available in select parts of Kentucky and southern Ohio. That limited reach gave the soda a cult-like status among those who grew up with it and created instant nostalgia for Kentuckians who moved away.

In recent years, Ale-8 has expanded its reach, thanks to increasing demand from fans outside Kentucky and a growing interest in regional, craft-style sodas. Flavors like cherry Ale-8 and orange cream have joined the lineup, and the drink is now available in more grocery stores and online retailers across the country.

Yet even as it grows, Ale-8 has remained dedicated to its Appalachian roots. The company regularly supports local charities and events, partners with Kentucky artists and musicians, and participates in community celebrations.

In many ways, Ale-8-One’s story mirrors that of Appalachia itself: rich in tradition, fiercely loyal, and quietly resilient. It has weathered decades of change, not by chasing every trend, but by staying true to what it is. For nearly 100 years, it has offered more than just a beverage — it has offered a sense of place and memory in a bottle.

Here is my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mail:

Certain smells cling to memory long after they’ve left the kitchen: bacon grease popping, cornbread baking and apples sizzling in a cast-iron skillet.

Apples have been part of the Appalachian food landscape for centuries. European settlers brought apple seeds and grafted varieties to the region in the 18th century, where they adapted well to the mountainous terrain.

Unlike other fruits, apples were accessible, easy to store and highly versatile. Every part of the fruit served a purpose. Peels could be fermented into vinegar, bruised apples became sauce or jelly, and seeds were used to cultivate new trees.

Preservation was key to survival in rural areas. Families dried apple slices on string, canned them in syrup, or pressed them into hard cider and apple butter.

Frying was another method — using rendered fat, butter, or lard to quickly cook the fruit with sugar and spices.

This dish, now commonly known as fried apples, became a popular and efficient way to use aging or surplus fruit.

They were frequently served at breakfast, as a dessert, or alongside pork, which was a staple protein in mountain communities. Apples and hogs were both central to subsistence farming in the region, and their pairing was practical as well as flavorful.

Fried apples are traditionally made using firm, tart varieties such as Granny Smith, Winesap, or Jonathan, which hold their texture and balance the sweetness during cooking.

Cast-iron skillets became the cookware of choice due to their durability and ability to retain even heat over open flames or wood-burning stoves. This made them ideal for frying apples in large batches for families or community gatherings.

While modern variations may include ingredients like maple syrup, nutmeg, or lemon, the basic recipe has remained relatively unchanged for more than a century.

Today, fried apples are still sold in glass jars at country stores, served in diners across the South, and prepared in Appalachian homes.

They stand as a reminder of historical food preservation, agricultural self-sufficiency, and the practical ingenuity that defines Appalachian foodways. The continued presence of fried apples in kitchens and restaurants reflects the enduring value of seasonal eating and home preservation.

Even as food systems modernize, dishes like fried apples preserve the memory of a time when every harvest had to stretch through the winter and nothing went to waste.

Here's my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mail.

“Greens” are often paired with tomatoes, cucumbers and croutons for a light lunch in many parts of the country.

In Appalachia, though, “greens” go best with a ham hock, bacon or fatback as part of a hearty dinner.

That’s because in Appalachian cooking and throughout much of the American South, greens typically refers to leafy vegetables that are cooked and slow-simmered with flavor bombs, like smoked meat, onions and spices.

Salad greens, like lettuce, arugula, or spinach are usually eaten raw and aren’t typically considered part of the traditional “mess of greens” in mountain cooking.

Some of the most common Appalachian greens include:

Collard Greens – Heat- and cold-tolerant, collards are prized for their hearty texture and deep flavor, especially after the first frost.

Turnip Greens – Often served with the turnip roots, these greens are tender and slightly peppery.

Mustard Greens – Known for their sharp, spicy bite, mustard greens are often mixed with milder varieties.

Kale – An old-world green that has made a modern comeback, kale thrives in Appalachian gardens and gets sweeter in cooler weather.

Pokeweed – A wild green that must be carefully prepared to remove toxins, poke is a controversial but storied part of Appalachian foraging culture.

Creasy Greens (Wintercress) – A peppery, early-spring wild green that’s beloved in mountain communities.

The tradition of eating greens in Appalachia runs deep, with roots in Native American, African, and European cuisines.

Indigenous peoples foraged wild greens like lamb’s quarters, ramps, and pokeweed long before settlers arrived. European immigrants brought seeds and methods for cultivating kale, cabbage, and turnip greens, while enslaved Africans introduced rich, slow-cooked preparations and the practice of seasoning greens with smoked meats.

For Appalachian families, especially in rural or isolated communities, greens were a critical part of subsistence living. They were easy to grow, nutritious, and adaptable to the seasons. Whether foraged or cultivated, greens represented a reliable food source through lean winters and long growing seasons.

Plus, they’re delicious.

In Appalachian kitchens, greens are often prepared in a way that honors their flavor and maximizes their nourishment. A pot of greens simmered low and slow with a hunk of salty meat is a classic preparation, producing not only tender greens but also a richly seasoned “potlikker” —the broth that’s revered in its own right.

Greens are served with cornbread to sop up that potlikker, tucked into savory pies, or combined with beans and onions for a filling meal.

Today, greens remain a staple in Appalachian cuisine — from appearing at markets and in backyard gardens to restaurant menus, where they can even be found alongside those other “greens.”

Here’s my latest column for HD Media:

Mountain Dew has long been the preferred beverage in Appalachia.

It has just taken on a few different forms over the years.

In the first part of the 1900s, “Mountain Dew“ referred to moonshine, the illegal, potent whiskey.

In the latter part of the 1900s, “Mountain Dew” referred to an electric green citrus soda high in caffeine.

Both, though, have deep roots in the Appalachian Mountains.

Bubbly Beginnings

In the late 1920s, a Knoxville, Tennessee, entrepreneur named Max Licht developed a brand new soda. At the time, soft drinks were rising in popularity as an alternative to alcohol and were even often touted as medicinal.

Licht’s soda was clear, like moonshine, but contained no alcohol. He playfully named the drink Mountain Dew in its honor.

“Mountain Dew” had been used for generations to describe homemade whiskey, often produced in secrecy in the remote mountains of Appalachia.

Do The Dew

The concept was revived in the 1940s when Tennessee beverage bottlers Barney and Ally Hartman created their version as a mixer for alcoholic beverages.

In 1947, the brothers began selling it to the general public. Like the earlier version, it was a clear and caffeine-free citrus soda.

That all changed in the 1950s when the Tip Corporation of Marion, Virginia, acquired the rights to the drink and reformulated the beverage with a sharper citrus profile, bright color and tons of caffeine.

Appalachian Affair

Up until this point, Mountain Dew was a regional product, primarily consumed in Tennessee and nearby areas. Advertisements played up its Appalachian roots and ties to moonshine. The company's mascot was "Willy the Hillbilly," and the label included a blurb touting its "flavors specially blended in the traditional hillbilly style."

While these campaigns were criticized by some for reinforcing stereotypes, they also played a significant role in increasing the drink’s popularity in the very region they parodied. Mountain Dew’s irreverent tone and bold flavor resonated with Appalachians, many of whom saw the beverage as a product that reflected, even if imperfectly, a part of their cultural identity.

Pepsi purchased the soda in 1964. While the soda went nationwide throughout the 1970s and 1980s, Mountain Dew simultaneously became increasingly entrenched in Appalachian communities. Its availability, and strong association with regional pride helped cement its place not only as a popular refreshment but also as a kind of cultural badge.

Flavor Of The Future

It is now the fifth most popular soda in the United States, with Appalachia accounting for a significant portion of Mountain Dew purchases.

In fact, Appalachia may love Mountain Dew too much. Some public health experts believe the soda negatively impacts the region's health and coined the term "Mountain Dew mouth" to describe tooth decay from drinking too much of the soda.

Regardless, Mountain Dew’s popularity continues to grow. Mountain Dew is a billion-dollar brand with a wide array of spin-off flavors, national promotions, and high-profile sponsorships.

And in Appalachia, the soda retains a stronger connection. From its tongue-in-cheek connection to moonshine to its place in our cultural lexicon, Mountain Dew’s roots run deep in the hills and hollers of Appalachia.

Here's my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mai:

In Appalachia, spring doesn’t just arrive—it creeps in slowly, teasing warm days before pulling back with a late frost.

The mountains drop signals of spring: the first daffodils in fields, birds chirping in the morning and forsythia exploding in golden fire along fencerows.

But the real herald of spring, the one that says winter has finally loosened its grip, is the redbud tree.

Scattered along roadsides and tucked into the edges of forests, redbuds light up the hillsides in a brilliant shade of magenta.

The best part? Those bright little flowers aren’t just pretty—they’re edible.

The Eastern Redbud (Cercis canadensis) tree is native to Appalachia and indigenous peoples have used the flowers, buds and seed pods as a food and medicinal source for centuries.

Redbud is rich in Vitamin C, antioxidants and protein, which made it a nutritious and beneficial addition to a healthy diet. The high Vitamin C content supports immune health, while antioxidants help combat free radicals and reduce inflammation. Additionally, the protein found in redbud flowers can contribute to muscle repair and overall wellness.

The different parts of the redbud each have a mild, sweet and slightly tangy flavor, and a crisp texture. They can be eaten raw, such as in a spring salad, or pickled with vinegar for a dressing. They can be steeped in hot water to create a delicate tea or made into a jelly to enjoy year round.

Tip: Redbud trees don’t have toxic lookalikes, but it’s always important to consult a local foraging expert if you’re not certain. And avoid trees that may have been exposed to pesticides.

Over time, redbud has remained a seasonal delicacy, often foraged by those who carry on the traditions of wildcrafting and herbalism. Today, chefs and home cooks alike unlock redbud’s culinary potential, incorporating it into Appalachian-inspired dishes that celebrate the region’s deep connection to nature. Its presence in modern kitchens reflects a broader revival of foraging and sustainable food traditions that honor Appalachia’s rich cultural and ecological heritage.

Foraging for items like redbud isn’t just a trend in Appalachia; it’s a way of life that has sustained families for generations. The knowledge of what’s edible and what’s not has been passed down through storytelling and lived experience. Appalachians have always known how to make the most of what nature provides, and redbuds are no exception.

It’s fitting, then, that they’ve quietly become part of our food traditions. So, next time you see a redbud tree in full bloom, don’t just admire it—gather a few blossoms and bring them into your kitchen. Add them to a salad, tuck them into biscuits, or try your hand at this simple, beautiful redbud jelly recipe.

Here is my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mail:

Stuffed peppers have a long and diverse history, with variations appearing in cuisines across the globe.

The concept of stuffing vegetables is centuries old, and peppers, which are native to the Americas, are a popular choice due to their hollow cavity and bitter flavor.

Countries in the Mediterranean and Middle East stuff their peppers with rice, herbs and sometimes ground meat.

In Eastern Europe, stuffed peppers are typically filled with ground pork or beef, rice, and spices, then simmered in a tomato-based sauce.

Mexico’s chile relleno consists of a poblano pepper stuffed with cheese or other fillings.

In Appalachia, “mangoes” are used.

No, not those kind.

In parts of Ohio, Kentucky, and West Virginia, older generations sometimes refer to bell peppers as “mangoes.”

This unusual term dates back to at least the 19th century and has roots in food preservation methods.

“When mango fruits were first imported to the United States, they had to be pickled, since there weren’t any refrigerators. This was true of many other fruits and vegetables that weren’t native to North America, so many of them were also pickled,” according to Mango.com.

“Eventually, “mango” referred to anything that was pickled, which included green peppers. As the veggies became more popular, ‘mango’ just became synonymous with ‘green pepper,’ and it’s stuck in some of the midwest states.”

People mistook the term mango as the process, rather than the fruit, according to Lori Fogg, author of the food blog, A Coalcracker in the Kitchen:

“Some seem to think that this originated with coal miners in eastern Pennsylvania in the 1870s. The Pennsylvania Board of Agriculture referred to them as mango peppers in 1879, and the Ohio Board of Agriculture referred to them the same in their 1896 annual report.”

“Many old local recipes call for ‘mangoes’ when really meaning green peppers. In Cincinnati, in the Forest Hills School district in the 1960s and ‘70s, the term ‘stuffed mangoes’ was used on the school menu.”

Now, it’s less common to see the word “mango” used for green peppers in our region. But stuffing them remains a staple in Appalachian cuisine.

Like any good recipe that stands the test of time in Appalachia, stuffed peppers draw on a few key characteristics: local foods, hearty ingredients, preservation and practicality.

Appalachian cooking is known for making the most of what’s available. Stuffed peppers allow families to stretch ground meat by mixing it with rice or breadcrumbs, making an affordable and filling meal.

Even if it doesn’t contain mangoes.

Here's my latest column for the WV Gazette-Mail:

Creamed, chipped beef on toast, often referred to by the military nickname “S.O.S.” — a shorthand for “Stuff on a Shingle,” with more colorful interpretations in less formal settings — is both a nostalgic comfort food for some and a chided necessity for others.

This humble dish is made of thinly sliced dried beef served in a creamy white sauce over toasted or plain bread.

As a quick aside: What IS dried beef? Just like it sounds. It’s a form of salted and dried beef that is sliced into small, thin pieces and sold in jars or small packets. It is also a common ingredient used to coat a cheeseball.

The dish has roots in military mess halls. The dish’s affordability, ease of preparation and long shelf life made it ideal for feeding large numbers of soldiers.

The recipe appeared in Army cookbooks as early as World War I, but it became particularly associated with the lean years of the Great Depression and World War II. When soldiers returned home, they brought the recipe with them, embedding it into the culinary traditions of their communities.

For Appalachia, a region often shaped by economic challenges and a culture of making do with what was available, creamed, chipped beef on toast fits perfectly into the local food culture.

The dish can be made from pantry staples like dried beef, flour, butter, and milk, ingredients that were often on hand and not dependent upon seasonal produce.

In Appalachia, S.O.S. found a home as a hearty breakfast or dinner. The region’s labor-intensive industries, from coal mining to farming, demanded meals that were filling, affordable, and quick to prepare.

Families embraced the meal for its ability to stretch a small amount of meat into a meal that could feed everyone around the table. It remains a memory — for better or for worse — for those who grew up with it.

It’s a dish that tells the story of perseverance through tough times, creativity in the face of scarcity, and the deep connection people have to food.

Here's my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mail:

The more, the merrier. At least that’s the case when it comes to candy bar components.

Marshmallow. Caramel. Nougat. Nuts. Cookie. Cream. Coconut.

The first retail confection to venture beyond just plain chocolate or another singular ingredient was created right here in Appalachia.

In 1912, the Standard Candy Company in Nashville, Tennessee, invented the “Goo Goo Cluster” in a copper kettle.

Known as a “combination” candy bar, the Goo Goo Cluster was the first candy bar in America being mass produced to contain more than one principle element.

The round cluster consists of caramel, marshmallow nougat, fresh roasted peanuts and milk chocolate.

The hand-dipped sweet was gathered into a mound, which bucked the trend of conventional rectangular or square shapes at the time.

Initially, the candy was sold under glass at drug store candy counters. Years later, the Goo Goo Cluster would be swaddled in tinfoil.

Due to its renegade shape, the Goo Goo Cluster was more difficult to wrap than other candies of the day.

But eventually, machinery was put in place to automate wrapping the Goo Goo Cluster, which is how they’re sold in stores today.

You’ll find the classic version, as well as two variations: “Pecan,” which replaces the peanuts with pecans and “Peanut Butter,” which replaces the marshmallow nougat and caramel with peanut butter.

While those two names are pretty self-explanatory, what about the original candy itself?

It turns out that while brainstorming a name for the new candy, one of the founders’ sons recently said his first words: “goo goo.”

That’s how the first slogan was born: “Goo Goo! It’s so good, people will ask for it from birth.”

The Goo Goo Cluster can be seen as a sweet reminder of Appalachian traditions, values and ingenuity.

It embodies the region’s ability to create something extraordinary from the ordinary, leaving a lasting impression on the culinary — and confectionary — history of Appalachia.

Here is my latest column for the Charleston Gazette-Mail:

The quintessential Christmas cookie tray often includes peanut butter blossoms with the Hershey Kiss in the center, classic sugar cookies in the shape of trees and bells and maybe some peanut brittle for a mix of sweet and salty.

Peanut brittle is a smooth, flat candy broken into shards with peanuts embedded inside. It is buttery, crunchy, nutty – and will add some West Virginia folklore flare to your platter.

Much like how folk heroes Johnny Appleseed planted apple trees down the coast and John Henry raced a steam-powered drill, Tony Beaver – a giant lumberjack who lived in the mountains of West Virginia – brought us peanut brittle.

Tony Beaver’s adventures were created by the West Virginia “woodhicks,” a common term for loggers in the state from 1880 to 1920, according to e-WV: The West Virginia Encyclopedia Online, when they would try to out-lie each other during evenings in the logging camps.

Known as a cousin to Paul Bunyan, Tony Beaver was said to have been born regular-size but grew to 18 feet tall and operated a lumbering camp up on the mountain on the mythical “Eel River.” He was friends with two giant oxen, Hannibal and Goliath, invented both clothespins and match sticks, and grew jumbo-sized watermelons and peanuts.

During one particularly rainy summer, the Eel River rose to alarming heights, and the village people begged Tony Beaver to save their town from flooding. He loaded his giant peanuts into wagons and instructed the townspeople to shell and toss them into the river, while his logging crew dumped barrels of molasses into the water to slow it down. As the river churned and toiled the peanuts and molasses, it created a thick, golden brown sludge that hardened, creating a dam and halting the rising river.

After the weather returned to normal, Tony Beaver took a giant ax to the dam, shattering it into shards and creating the world’s first peanut brittle candy that the villagers exclaimed was “dam good.”

Another common origin story is one of a southern cook who, while making taffy, accidentally added baking soda instead of cream of tartar, creating the hard, brittle structure instead of a stretchy taffy one.

Regardless of how the confection arrived in the region, peanut brittle rose to popularity in the 19th century and gained traction in the American south where peanuts helped make the dessert versatile and affordable.

Made from sugar, peanuts, and a touch of baking soda that is carefully boiled, stirred and poured onto a cool slab, peanut brittle helps tell a story of resourcefulness.

In Appalachia, where families rely on locally sourced ingredients and creative cooking methods, peanut brittle quickly found a home. The candy’s long shelf life made it ideal for preserving a sweet treat during leaner months, and its simple preparation ensured it could be made even in kitchens with modest resources. By the 20th century, peanut brittle had become a hallmark of Appalachian kitchens, with recipes passed down through generations.

Recipes are frequently handwritten on stained recipe cards or remembered by heart, ensuring that the candy remains a link to past generations. Each bite carries with it the flavors of tradition and the pride of preserving a regional favorite.

Peanut brittle embodies the region’s ingenuity, using simple ingredients to create something delightful. It connects people to their past, with each recipe telling a story of family, tradition, and community - perfect for the holidays.