Here's my latest column in the newspaper:

The word “Vidalia” finds its way onto tons of product labels — Vidalia onion dressing, Vidalia onion salsa, Vidalia onion chips, and, the original, Vidalia onion.

(Not to be confused with “Vandalia,” which is known as one of the potential names for the geographic area that eventually became West Virginia.)

But what does it mean?

The Vidalia onion traces back to the 1930s in Toombs County, Georgia, around the town of Vidalia. Farmers there began to notice that onions grown in the region were unusually sweet and mild compared to typical pungent onions.

The key was the soil and water. The region has low-sulfur, sandy soil, which limits the compounds that normally make onions “hot” or sharp. The result is a naturally sweet, crisp onion.

By the 1940s and 1950s, farmers began selling them more widely. Their popularity expanded drastically after the opening of the state farmers market in Vidalia, which helped distribute the onions throughout the Southeast.

The crop gained national attention in the 1970s and 1980s as grocery chains began marketing them as a premium seasonal item. The term “Vidalia onion” became marketing shorthand for “sweet onion,” where food companies were using the phrase on products without any connection to the town itself.

It began to function like a genericized brand name, in which a brand becomes so dominant or familiar that people use the trademark as the everyday word for the product.

Such is the case with Kleenex for tissues, Band-Aid for adhesive bandages, Xerox for photocopying, Velcro for fasteners and Google for “search online.”

“Vidalia onion” simply signified “sweet onion.”

That changed in the 1980s, when Vidalia onions were brought under a federal marketing order, which helped protect the origin with oversight from the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

“Vidalia onion” can now only be used for onions grown within that defined region and meeting USDA standards for production and handling.

It’s not the first time geography has been locked into a food name. In France, Champagne must come from the Champagne region, and Roquefort cheese can only be made in specific caves in southern France. In Italy, Parmigiano-Reggiano and Prosciutto di Parma are tied to specific provinces and traditional methods, and balsamic vinegar of Modena follows strict regional rules. In Greece, Kalamata olives are similarly tied to their place of origin.

In the United States, Idaho potatoes are protected through a state-based certification system, and Florida oranges remain tied to their growing region as a matter of agricultural branding and regulation.

Because these food names have a protected status and must adhere to certain requirements, their quality remains consistent and the local producers are able to maintain an economic advantage.

The name “Vidalia” has strong consumer recognition and immediately communicates flavor expectations.

That’s why we now see “Vidalia onion flavored” or “Vidalia onion inspired” for products that have a sweet onion flavor profile — even if they have no connection to the Georgia town.

It was a small Georgia town where farmers discovered that the land itself changed the flavor of an onion. Much like Appalachia, food is rooted in place and is shaped by weather, terrain and water. In both Vidalia and Appalachia, the soil has always been part of the recipe.

Here's my latest column for HD Media:

Most of us wouldn’t enjoy the dampest, darkest and most decaying part of the woods. But, that’s exactly where this fungi thrives.

Oyster mushrooms, rather than being ocean-loving beach-dwellers as their name might suggest, grow along dead or dying trees like oak or beech in Appalachia and beyond.

The group of edible fungi are known for their soft, fan-shaped caps that resemble oyster shells – hence the name. They grow in soft, overlapping clusters on hardwood like logs, stumps and even fallen branches. When flipped over, their gills run all the way down the short stem like pleats.

But there are a number of individual species that fall under the oyster mushroom umbrella, and each has its own unique characteristics:

Pearl oyster (Pleurotus ostreatus) - This is the classic gray to tan oyster mushroom that grows in shelf-like clusters on hardwood logs. It is most commonly found in fall and again in cool spring stretches.

Phoenix oyster (Pleurotus pulmonarius) - Lighter in color, thinner and shows up in summer when the pearl tapers off, the phoenix is a warm-weather counterpart to the pearl.

Golden oyster (Pleurotus citrinopileatus) - This mushroom is bright yellow, delicate and short-lived once picked. It is not native, but it is now naturalized in parts of Appalachia.

Blue oyster - A cultivated variety of the pearl oyster, the blue oyster is slightly thicker, more robust and very forgiving to cook.

King oyster (Pleurotus eryngii) - This one looks different from the others with a thick stem and small cap. It is not found in the area.

Pink oyster (Pleurotus djamor) - Tropical, bright pink and found usually in farmers markets or other similar shops, as it doesn’t grow naturally in the area.

Pearl, phoenix and golden oyster varieties have been around for ages – still emerging in the woods after a good rain – while blue, king and pink, at least in Appalachia, are more likely to have been a product of cultivation.

Oyster mushrooms have been cultivated since World War I, when Germany began growing them on straw and agricultural waste as a way to stretch food rations. The Germans discovered that oyster mushrooms require very little to grow quickly. That discovery spread quickly to the rest of Europe and eventually the United States.

Now, oyster mushrooms are a staple at farmers markets. And, for good reason. They have a mild, slightly sweet flavor with a hint of umami. The texture can range from tender and silky to meaty, depending on how they were cooked — whether that’s sautéed, roasted or fried.

That range speaks to the mushroom’s broader flexibility: It makes use of what’s available, much like the region. In Appalachia, that kind of resourcefulness has long shaped the way people cook, turning what’s on hand into something delicious.

What starts in the background of the forest often ends up taking center stage on the plate.

Here's my latest column for HD Media:

Some dishes come with recipes. This one comes with aliases.

American Chop Suey. Goulash. Slumgullion. Beefaroni. Johnny Marzetti.

The ingredients — pasta, beef and tomatoes — remain the same. But the name changes depending on the region.

The concept of the dish is simple: combine what’s on hand into something filling. Stretch a little meat with starch, build flavor from scraps, and make enough to feed everyone at the table. It’s the backbone of peasant cooking, born from necessity rather than precision.

You see it everywhere. In Italy, leftover pasta becomes frittata or baked casseroles. In Spain, rice absorbs whatever meats or vegetables are available. In China, stir-fries turn small amounts of protein and produce into a complete meal.

And in the United States, it’s American Chop Suey. Or goulash. Or slumgullion. Or Beefaroni. Or Johnny Marzetti.

AMERICAN CHOP SUEY

You’ll find “American chop suey” in parts of New England and the Mid-Atlantic. But the only thing Chinese about it is its name: “Chop suey” comes from a Cantonese Chinese phrase that roughly translates to “mixed pieces” or “odds and ends.”

When Chinese immigrants brought the idea to the United States in the 19th century, it originally referred to a dish made from a variety of leftover ingredients like meats and vegetables stir-fried together. Hence, the pasta-tomato-macaroni meal became an American version of the dish.

GOULASH

Travel deeper into the coal regions of West Virginia, eastern Ohio, or Kentucky, and you’ll hear it called “goulash.” Appalachian goulash bears almost no resemblance to the paprika-heavy beef stew that originated in Hungary.

When immigrants from Eastern Europe in the late 19th and early 20th centuries came to the region, they brought goulash, which traditionally contains chunks of beef, onions, paprika and sometimes potatoes. Over time, the recipe evolved to include other ingredients — like macaroni — that make up a hearty, one-pot meal but the name stayed the same.

SLUMGULLION

One of the first documented uses of the word “slumgullion” was in 1872 in the story Roughin’ It by Mark Twain. But it was referring to a gross, watery beverage. It later was used to describe a weak, tasteless stew made from leftovers. And then ultimately became a catch-all term for a stew made for whatever was on hand.

While it’s the most fun term of the bunch, it’s likely one of the least used but still found in frontier regions that had logging camps and gold mines -- the West, Alaska and Appalachia.

BEEFARONI

“Beefaroni” is the trademarked name for the canned version of the meal produced by Chef Boyardee. First introduced in the U.S, in the 1970s, Chef Boyardee commercialized the macaroni, beef and tomato dish into a ready-to-eat meal.

The company took the home-style dish, standardized it, and marketed it, giving it a catchy, trademarked name — and bringing the dish into homes nationwide.

JOHHNY MARZETTI

In some pockets of the country, especially areas with Italian-American influence, it’s known as Johnny Marzetti. It traces back to Marzetti’s Restaurant in Columbus, opened by Teresa Marzetti in the early 1900s. She is said to have created the dish for her brother-in-law, Johnny Marzetti, and it quickly became popular because it was inexpensive, filling and easy to prepare in large quantities.

The dish typically combines ground beef, tomato sauce, pasta, and cheese, then is baked into a casserole, giving it a more structured, cohesive texture than stovetop goulash or slumgullion.. Like its counterparts, Johnny Marzetti reflects a practical, make-do style of cooking, but stands apart as the cheesier, oven-baked version with a specific place, name and group of users tied to it.

There are even more names. Chili mac, slum gully, Minnesota goulash, hot dish, etc.

At its core, no matter the name, the dish is the same: browned beef, tender macaroni, and a tomato-based sauce that binds it all together. Some families stir in vegetables, others layer in cheese, and some bake it for a golden top. It’s versatile, economical, and endlessly comforting — characteristic of an Appalachian staple.

These dishes aren’t defined by strict ingredients — they’re defined by resourcefulness. They are economical, adaptable, and deeply personal, often carrying the imprint of family habits and regional language more than any written recipe.

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

If you’re at Grandma’s house, that blue Danish butter cookie tin on the coffee table is never full of cookies.

Tomato pin cushion? Yes. Nuts? Sure. Sweet treats? You bet. Old-timey candies like squishy orange circus peanuts and hard, strawberry-wrapped candies can be found alongside spare nickels and bobby pins.

Occasionally, there may be one less common, curiously named candy in the mix: horehound.

Horehound has a distinct flavor often compared to root beer, black licorice, and marshmallow — all derived from plants with an earthy, herbal character. That bittersweet taste comes from “Marrubium vulgare,” a member of the mint family known for its fuzzy gray-green leaves and small white flowers, features that ultimately shaped the plant’s name.

The word “horehound” traces back to Old English, combining “har,” meaning gray or hairy, with “hune,” an early term for the plant itself. Together, harhune described the herb’s woolly leaves, and despite the modern spelling, the name has no connection to dogs or actual “hounds.”

Horehound candy is made by steeping dried leaves in hot water, then adding ingredients like butter, sugar, or molasses to create a boiled candy, cut into pieces once cooled. This simple process has remained largely unchanged for nearly two centuries, and its consistency and long shelf life made it a practical treat for families storing sweets in tins or jars.

Horehound’s use as a medicinal herb predates its candy form. People brewed teas, boiled syrups, and crafted lozenges from its leaves to treat coughs, sore throats, and congestion. In a region like Appalachia, where coal mining, logging and other dust-heavy industries often affected respiratory health, horehound provided a practical home remedy, offering some relief for irritated throats and lungs.

The plant itself is remarkably resilient. A hardy perennial, horehound grows easily in poor, well-drained soils, thrives in full sun, tolerates drought, and requires little maintenance. Appalachian families could cultivate it near their homes, using it for both culinary and medicinal purposes — a small herb with outsized utility.

Today, horehound candy isn’t as common as peppermint sticks or Bit-O-Honey, but it persists for those seeking old-fashioned sweets. Brands like Claey’s, Smith Brothers, and Jakemans keep the tradition alive, often found in local general stores, farmers markets, and specialty candy shops across Appalachia. These candies continue to appeal to people who appreciate both historic flavor and the herbal qualities that originally inspired them.

Horehound stands among other old-timey sweets as a link to a bygone era of candy-making, when treats were simple, often herbal, and sometimes doubled as remedies. Like butterscotch discs, root beer barrels, and licorice wheels, horehound reflects both the flavor preferences and practical ingenuity of past generations, offering a taste of history in every bite.

So next time you open that well-loved cookie tin, next to chalky Necco Wafers and chewy Mary Janes, you may just find a horehound drop — a candy whose curious name, earthy flavor, and herbal history carry a piece of Appalachia, tucked quietly among the classics.

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

As January’s New Year’s resolutions of moderation dwindle, February ushers in the season of indulgence — mainly in the form of paczki.

Paczki — dense, yeast-raised doughnuts filled with jam or custard — begin filling bakery windows across the northern part of Appalachia in the weeks leading up to Lent.

Richer than standard American doughnuts and historically fried in lard, paczki originated in Polish Catholic households as a way to use up eggs, sugar, butter and fat before the Lenten fast.

Paczki followed the Eastern European immigration into the Ohio Valley in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. That’s when Polish, Slovak, Hungarian and Croatian workers arrived to fill jobs in steel mills, coal mines, glass factories and river-based industries — bringing with them food traditions from their home lands.

Paczki were not designed as everyday sweets but as practical, seasonal foods. Their traditional fillings — prune butter, apricot jam and other preserved fruits — reflect Old World preservation methods that are not unlike those in Appalachia. Both foodways developed under similar constraints: long winters, limited access to fresh ingredients and an emphasis on using what was available before spoilage or fasting periods.

Over time, paczki consumption extended beyond Polish American households. In some Northern Panhandle communities, paczki became a regional marker of late winter rather than an ethnic specialty, appearing alongside fish fries, pierogi sales and other Lenten traditions.

Similar pastries appear in Germany as “Berliners,” in Italy as “chiacchiere” or “bomboloni,” in France as “beignets,” and in the United Kingdom as Shrove Tuesday pancakes. In each case, the foods serve the same functional purpose: using perishable, calorie-dense ingredients before the Lenten fast.

The recurrence of these pastries across cultures underscores that paczki are part of a shared culinary response to religious observance rather than an isolated ethnic tradition.

Paczki have also evolved as they found their way through church dinners, community picnics and neighborhood gatherings — at least in name.

In Polish, the word is pronounced roughly POHNCH-kee, with the “cz” producing a soft “ch” sound and the “ki” ending clearly articulated. In much of the Upper Ohio Valley, anglicized versions — such as PAUNCH-kee or PUNCH-kee — became common as the pastry moved from small, Polish bakeries into mainstream grocery stores.

Paczki persist not as a trend, but as evidence of how the northern edge of Appalachia has long functioned as a cultural crossroads. Unlike other parts of Appalachia where paczki remain relatively unfamiliar, this region absorbed the tradition early, folding it into an already hybrid food identity shaped by migration and industry.

What looks like a donut with a Polish accent is, in this region, a reminder that Appalachia’s table has always been set by many hands.

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

In most communities across the country, a hot dog is a simple recipe: a weiner, a bun and a squiggle of ketchup or mustard.

But in Charleston, West Virginia, a hot dog recipe would be found in the “dessert” section: pastry dough, fluffy cream and a drizzle of chocolate.

The donut is more commonly known as a “long John,” “cream bun,” “bar donut,” and many more outside the region.

It’s the Spring Hill Pastry Shop in South Charleston that coined the iconic moniker for the long, yeast‑based pastry split and filled with cream or custard, dusted with powdered sugar or topped with chocolate.

The hot dog has been on the family-owned bakery’s menu since its opening in September 1948 and remains its best-seller.

According to Clio, a nonprofit that offers digital content on historical and cultural sites, the idea for the hot dog pastry was created by current shop owner Robin Williams’ grandfather.

“The icing that goes in those is a recipe that he made back then. He was just looking for something to put it in … he decided to roll these pieces of dough up to where they come out shaped like a hotdog bun and he could slice it and fill it with that icing. He really liked that icing,” she said.

And it’s clear the community agrees: Spring Hill Pastry Shop makes about 150 dozen hot dogs per day.

While the hot dog has become the most popular iteration of the pastry, other bakeries in the area have created their own versions.

Sarah’s Bakery in South Hills makes “chubby buns,” while Batter & Bliss Baking Co. offers “Molly dogs,” named after owner Rylee Vealey’s dog, in various flavors like banana pudding and strawberry crunch. Valley Cakes & Cafe in Poca serves “wimpy Johns,” which are a bit more elevated.

Charleston’s hot dog — or chubby bun or Molly dog or wimpy John — pastry is a local chapter in a larger Appalachian story.

Variations of the same long, yeast-raised, cream-filled pastry appear throughout the region, often under different names.

In parts of West Virginia, Kentucky and Ohio, it’s more commonly called a long John or cream stick; in Pennsylvania’s Appalachian counties, similar pastries show up in neighborhood bakeries as cream bars or filled donuts, sometimes split, sometimes injected, sometimes topped with chocolate or simply dusted with sugar.

The name matters as much as the pastry itself. Calling it a hot dog isn’t a mistake — it’s a local shorthand, shaped by place and memory, the same way coal towns and river cities developed their own dialects, rituals and recipes. It signals belonging.

In an era where regional quirks are often flattened into something marketable, Charleston’s hot dog pastry remains stubbornly, proudly specific.

It’s a reminder that Appalachian food culture isn’t a single story, but a collection of small, deeply rooted ones — passed down through family bakeries, renamed across county lines and kept alive every time someone walks out with a white box under their arm.

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

In Appalachia, jelly is more than just a sweet spread.

Sure, grape, blackberry, strawberry and raspberry jellies are all familiar favorites.

But jelly has a spicy side, too. When red, yellow and green peppers, jalapeños and habaneros join the mix, a whole new spread is formed: hot pepper jelly.

Hot pepper jelly is made from peppers and sugar, resulting in a sweet-and-spicy condiment. Unlike fruit jellies, which are purely sweet, hot pepper jelly combines the natural heat of chili peppers with sugar, vinegar, and pectin to create a delicious spread.

Most food historians trace the earliest versions of pepper jelly to the late 1800s, when American home cooks first had reliable access to commercial pectin. Before that, jellies relied on long boiling times or naturally high-pectin fruits.

But once boxed pectin appeared at general stores, home canners began experimenting — thickening things no one had bothered to gel before. Peppers were an obvious candidate. They were abundant in the South, easy to grow, and already beloved in both sweet and savory preserving traditions. Early Southern cookbooks mention “pepper preserves,” usually sweetened and sometimes spiked with vinegar, but not yet the glossy, jewel-toned jelly we know today.

Appalachia, though, was fertile ground for the idea. Mountain gardeners have always had a knack for coaxing peppers into bumper crops. Even the most modest backyard patch can produce more jalapeños and banana peppers than a family can reasonably use.

And in a region where waste has never been an option, hot pepper jelly became a smart solution. By the 1930s and ’40s, as canning supplies grew cheaper and extension agents spread recipes through county fairs and grange halls, hot pepper jelly began appearing in Appalachian homes.

But the real boom came after World War II, when canning culture surged again and sugar shed its wartime rationing. Newly published church cookbooks — those treasured binders held together with plastic combs — started listing pepper jelly under “relishes” and “holiday recipes.” Mountain versions developed their own characteristics: a little more vinegar and a little more heat.

Every maker has a preferred method. Some swear by green jalapeños for clarity, others blend red bells and cayennes for a ruby finish. Apple cider vinegar tends to dominate here, lending that familiar Appalachian tang found in chowchow and three-bean salad. And while traditional recipes keep it simple, many modern cooks slip in peaches, cranberries, or even a splash of bourbon.

Appalachia has long relied on community networks — church basements, fundraisers, holiday exchanges — to keep traditions alive, and hot pepper jelly fits right in. By the late 20th century, pepper jelly had become a fixture — not just in home kitchens but in Appalachian food businesses. Small-batch producers began selling their versions at farmers markets and festivals. Restaurants started pairing it with fried chicken, pimento cheese, biscuits, or country ham. It stepped out of the pantry and onto the menu, carrying its history along with it.

Today, the resurgence of Appalachian cuisine has only strengthened its place. Chefs treat it as both a traditional preserve and a modern condiment. Home cooks use it as a glaze, a marinade, a topping, a secret ingredient.

Hot pepper jelly is resourceful, bold, a little sweet, a little fiery. It tells the story of how a simple Southern preserve found a home in the mountains and became, over time, something unmistakably Appalachian.

And around here, that’s history worth spreading.

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

It’s the piece of bread most people pass over — the tough, crusty end of the loaf left behind after dinner.

In the Ohio Valley, though, that humble end piece has been transformed into a prized meal: the meatball heel.

Piled high with meatballs, sauce and melted cheese, the meatball heel is a cross between a loaf of Italian bread and a submarine sandwich.

This Italian-American creation popped up in the immigrant communities along the Ohio River in towns like Wheeling, Weirton and Steubenville.

It continues to be popular in old-school restaurants and taverns like Mario’s Restaurant and Lounge in Weirton that lists “Meatball Heel: End loaf of bread stuffed with meatballs” — served just as it’s been for decades.

At Naples Spaghetti House in Steubenville, Ohio, they even serve a few variations: Meat Sauce Heel, Meatball Heel, Sausage Heel, Mushroom Heel, Tomato Sauce Heel, Double Meatball Heel, Double Sausage Heel, Roast Beef & Gravy Heel and Meat & Mushroom Heel.

They all follow the same general construction: A thick, crusty “heel” of a loaf of Italian bread provides a sturdy base that is hollowed out and stuffed with a hearty serving of homemade meatballs, marinara sauce and melted provolone or mozzarella cheese that is broiled golden and bubbly. The result is a big, rustic, saucy pocket full of flavor that could last for several meals.

The meatball heel is not well-known outside of the valley, but it exemplifies much of what defines Appalachian food as a whole: rooted in working-class kitchens, tied to heritage and valued for making use of every part available.

Like so many Appalachian dishes, the meatball heel tells a story — one of resourcefulness, family, and finding comfort in what’s on hand. What began as a way to stretch a loaf of bread has become a regional icon, passed down through generations and still served with pride. It’s proof that even the overlooked “heel” can rise to legendary status.

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.