LINDSEY (Host):
Well, now, folks, gather ’round and pull up a rocker, ’cause I got somethin’ that’ll tickle y’all right down to your shinbone. Today, we’ve wrangled up a whole passel of guests from every corner of Dixie to uncover all the curious ways Southerners have dressed up the humble art of grocery shoppin’. I reckon we got more words for food than a dog’s got fleas!
Now, last week, we hit a milestone more impressive than Uncle Bobby’s pork rind sculpture of Dolly Parton. We got our very first listener from Chunky, Mississippi! That’s right—Chunky! A town named after exactly what I look like after a late-night pecan pie binge.
Today’s inspiration came courtesy of our president, Donald Trump, who got all worked up ‘bout the word “groceries” like he’d just unearthed a chest of gold doubloons in his granny’s root cellar. Said it was a beautiful word. And y’know what? He’s kinda right. But beauty’s in the eye of the grocery bag holder, if y’ask me.
But let’s quit beatin’ around the cornbread and introduce our guests.
First up, we got Miss Birdie Lankford from Yazoo City, Mississippi. Birdie’s a connoisseur of old-timey expressions, and she’s been researchin’ obscure Southern lingo for her newsletter, The Kudzu Compendium. Birdie, welcome!
BIRDIE LANKFORD (Delighted, slightly scattered):
Why, thank you, Lindsey! Now, I’ll tell you what—I’ve been goin’ through all my Pawpaw’s old scribblings, and he had names for groceries I ain’t never heard from no one else. He called ‘em “smackin’s” when it was just the good stuff—pies, sweet breads, candied bacon—and “mundles” when it was your basics like flour or dried beans. And, when you had a mixed bag of things, he called it a “hodgegrub.” You ever hear that? A “hodgegrub”?
LINDSEY (laughing):
Hodgegrub! Sounds like a critter you’d find under a porch railin’.
BIRDIE LANKFORD:
Exactly! And if you were low on groceries, he’d say, “We’re down to kitchen scramblin’s.” Which I took to mean the kinda stuff you dig up from the back of the pantry when you’re desperate—a can of condensed milk and some week-old cornbread you try to pretend’s fresh.
LINDSEY:
Now, that sounds like my Uncle Ray’s casserole recipe. Next up, comin’ to us from Athens, Georgia, we have Mr. Leon Tate, a self-proclaimed “Food Historian” who runs the highly irregular but wildly popular “Leon’s List of Leftovers” blog. Leon, what’ve you found out there in the wilds of language?
LEON TATE (Pompous, long-winded):
Well, Lindsey, I’ve spent many a humid evening with my nose buried in crumbling almanacs and antebellum menus. You’d be surprised how much a person can glean from the bottom corner of a moldy recipe card. I’ve cataloged all manner of peculiar words: “morrow-sacks” for the dried goods folks kept for lean times; “company grab” for those fancy items you only set out when the preacher visits; and “noodlin’ fixin’s” which apparently was a term exclusive to a pocket of Appalachia where everything edible was turned into a stew or dumplin’ of some sort.
LINDSEY:
Leon, you’re makin’ me hungry and confused all at once. Next, we got Verna Sue Jenkins from the bayous of Louisiana. Verna’s known for her award-winnin’ pecan pralines and for her weekly radio show, The Cajun Chat. Verna Sue, what’s your take?
VERNA SUE JENKINS (Rich, musical Cajun accent):
Cher, down where I’m from, we got so many words for groceries, you’d think we were tryin’ to describe love. We got “provisions,” which is more formal, like when you’re stockin’ up for a storm. But if you’re just pickin’ up a few things, we call it “makin’ a scoot.” And, oh honey, if you’re headin’ to the store specifically for somethin’ sinful like cracklin’s or cane syrup, you’re “goin’ on a sugar hunt.”
LINDSEY:
Well, I do declare, y’all are just blowin’ my mind like a breeze through Spanish moss. Now, before y'all go any further, I gotta tell y’all about our sponsor today—[chuckles]—the fine folks at Artificial Cornbread Solutions.
These geniuses are harnessin’ the power of AI to create cornbread that somehow tastes just like your meemaw’s skillet version, even though it’s never once seen the inside of an oven. Their slogan? “As real as a porch swing on a July evenin’… but with algorithms.” Check ‘em out at artificialcornbreadsolutions.com.
Now, back to our panel. Birdie, Leon, Verna Sue… lemme ask y’all somethin’. What do y’all reckon is the most endearin’ thing about all these different words for groceries?
LEON TATE (voice swelling with self-importance):
Well, Lindsey, I’ve often said—much to the chagrin of my long-sufferin’ wife—that language is a garden. And by that, I don’t mean some well-trimmed English estate but rather a sprawling, overgrown backlot where words sprout like weeds and blossoms alike. You see, each of these little terms—smackin’s, hodgegrub, noodlin’ fixin’s—why, they’re all just flowers unique to their own patch of dirt. And when you gather ‘em together, you can trace a whole history. Take “provisions,” for example. That’s a term carried over from the old settlers, the ones who had to stockpile like squirrels fattenin’ up for the winter. But “kitchen scramblin’s”? Now that tells you a whole different story—of hardship, of ingenuity, of people stretchin’ a pot of stew to feed a passel of kinfolk with nothin’ but hope and a dash of pepper.
VERNA SUE JENKINS (nodding, eager to jump in):
Oh cher, you got that right. It’s all ‘bout survivin’ with style. Down in the bayou, we had to make do with what the swamp gave us. And so, when my Mama would say she was “makin’ a scoot,” it meant she was runnin’ to grab whatever she could to make a proper meal, even if it was nothin’ but rice and some smoked sausage. Now, you talk about “company grab”—whew, that’s a real thing! You put out your best spread when folks come visitin’, even if you had to scrape it together with old beans and dried shrimp. And the words, cher, these words keep it all alive. You can pass on recipes, but you gotta pass on the names, too. Otherwise, it’s like forcin’ crawfish to swim without water.
BIRDIE LANKFORD (her voice a sing-song jumble of nostalgia and discovery):
Oh, Verna Sue, you’re speakin’ my language! My Nana, she used to call certain dishes “Sunday layovers.” I never knew why till she explained it meant the things you kept for Sunday company—fancy pickled beets, pecan sandies, all the things you held back just to make sure the preacher thought you were livin’ right. And I swear, I’ve heard folks call leftovers “scraps ‘n’ treasurin’s.” Like, what you had left might be scraps, but if you loved it, it was treasure. That’s why I named my newsletter The Kudzu Compendium. Kudzu’s a weed, sure, but it’s also a tenacious thing—like these words we keep passin’ down. They latch on to us, growin’ wild and stubborn and beautiful all at once.
LEON TATE (interrupting with grandiosity):
And let’s not forget the grandeur of Southern potluck, where you’re as likely to find a “pot of possibles” as you are a “spread of splendor.” I’ve even heard the term “happenstance feast,” which apparently referred to a gathering where nobody planned a meal but everyone brought somethin’ anyway. In that sense, language is the ultimate “happenstance feast.” We all just bring what we got, and somehow, it always ends up tastin’ like somethin’ mighty fine.
VERNA SUE JENKINS (chuckling):
Lordy, Leon, you talkin’ about a “pot of possibles” reminds me of my Uncle Jules. Whenever he was feelin’ flush, he’d announce he was goin’ on a “fancy forage.” And that just meant he was buyin’ up anything that looked like it might make a decent gumbo. To him, groceries weren’t just groceries. They were “gatherins’.” Like you were harvestin’ joy instead of just buyin’ food. And I think that’s what we do down here, right? We turn mundane chores into rituals.
BIRDIE LANKFORD (with increasing excitement):
That’s it, Verna Sue! And there’s a real charm to it. Like when you find out what your neighbors call things—how Miss Ellen down the road still calls grocery shoppin’ “huntin’ grub.” And Mr. Ollie, he’ll ask if you’re “makin’ your marketin’ rounds” like he’s talkin’ ‘bout some grand expedition. These words, they’re like stories that never quite end. They just keep twistin’ around and sproutin’ new leaves.
LEON TATE (unable to resist one last bit of verbosity):
Precisely! It’s like that old saying—I believe it was Faulkner, or perhaps one of those garrulous old novelists—“The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” Language is a testament to that. Each word for groceries, for food, for nourishment, is like a tiny museum exhibit dedicated to the way we live, love, and—pardon my academic flourish—consume.
VERNA SUE JENKINS:
Oh, honey, if that’s true, then I reckon my museum is stocked with cane syrup, pickled okra, and tasso ham. And you know what? That’s just fine by me.
LINDSEY:
Well, ain’t this somethin’! Y’all, it’s like we’ve opened up a whole catalog of Southern culture right here on air. Words like “smackin’s” and “happenstance feasts”—they tell more ‘bout us than a whole history book full of dates and names. And I swear, if we could somehow bottle up all these terms, it’d be sweeter than muscadine wine.
Now, Birdie, Leon, Verna Sue—I got one last question for y’all. If you had to pick one of these grocery terms to pass down to the next generation, which one would it be, and why?
BIRDIE LANKFORD (her voice taking on that special reverence reserved for deep memories):
Oh, Lindsey, that’s like askin’ me to pick my favorite wildflower. But if I had to choose, I’d go with “smackin’s.” Now, I know it sounds silly—like somethin’ you’d say when you’re teasin’ a child about gettin’ into the cookie jar—but it’s got such joy tucked inside it. “Smackin’s” ain’t just food. It’s the good stuff. The special stuff. The things you reach for when you need comfort or celebration or just somethin’ to make an ordinary Tuesday feel like a Sunday picnic. And the sound of it, “smackin’s,” it’s got that old-time flavor baked right in. You can almost taste the molasses and butter on a hot biscuit.
VERNA SUE JENKINS (chiming in, warm and thoughtful):
Cher, I’m with Birdie on that. It’s gotta be somethin’ that carries the feelin’ of home. And for me, it’s “makin’ a scoot.” There’s somethin’ about that phrase that captures the energy of life down here—how nothin’s ever straightforward, but somehow it all—it all comes together. “Makin’ a scoot” is more than just runnin’ to the store. It’s grabbin’ what you need with a touch of desperation and a heap of creativity. It’s dashin’ out with a list scratched on the back of a church bulletin, hopin’ you can find enough to make a decent etouffee before company shows up unannounced. It’s practical and poetic all at once. And I love the way it sounds. Like you’re steppin’ quick, but your heart’s still set on lingerin’.
LEON TATE (voice booming, delighted to have the floor):
Ah, ladies, y’all make fine points, but I’ll tell you what I’d preserve if I could. I’d hang on to “happenstance feast.” Because that’s the essence of the South, if you ask me. It’s abundance from nothin’. It’s providence disguised as potluck. I’ve found that term scrawled in letters from plantation cooks, from Depression-era diaries, from faded sheets of paper passed down like heirlooms. And every time I see it, I feel like I’m catchin’ a glimpse of how resilient and inventive folks had to be. A “happenstance feast” is built out of serendipity and grace. And ain’t that just about the best description of life itself?
BIRDIE LANKFORD (laughing softly):
Leon, you do have a way of makin’ everything sound like it ought to be written in marble. And I do see what you’re gettin’ at. It’s like how my Mawmaw would call her stew pot a “reckonin’ kettle.” Reckonin’ with whatever the week had tossed her way, turnin’ it into somethin’ worthy of sharin’.
VERNA SUE JENKINS (nodding with enthusiasm):
Oh cher, I can tell you right now, there’s folks down in the bayou still usin’ words I thought were lost forever. And the young ones are pickin’ ‘em up like nothin’ ever changed. I think we’re just addin’ to the gumbo, not replacin’ it. And that’s a good thing. If we’re lucky, we just keep addin’ and stirrin’, and it only gets richer.
LEON TATE (clutching his imaginary lectern with fervor):
I refuse to believe it’s all dyin’ out. Languages change, sure, but they also adapt. And in the South, words are like heirloom seeds. They may lay dormant for a while, but plant ‘em in the right soil and they’ll grow back with all their wild beauty intact. I think there’s a real hunger for authenticity, even among young folks who wouldn’t know a “morrow-sack” from a mobile app. They crave connection, and if we keep sharin’ these words, they’ll find their way to fertile ground.
BIRDIE LANKFORD (earnestly):
Leon, you’re absolutely right. And I think there’s a whole new crop of writers, storytellers, even podcasters—Lindsey, that means you!—who are plantin’ these words again. The trick is to use ‘em like spices—just enough to flavor the stew but not so much you drown out the taste of what’s new.
LINDSEY:
Y’all sure do have a way of puttin’ things into perspective. Makes me wanna run out and do a little huntin’ grub myself, just to see what words I can find. I think you’re right, though. We keep passin’ these words along, and they’ll stick around like red clay to Sunday shoes.
And it reminds me of somethin’ my Great Aunt Pearline used to say: “Language is like gravy—you can stretch it out, spice it up, or thicken it when times are lean, but you always gotta stir the pot or it’ll stick.” Now, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve burnt a pan of gravy takin’ her advice, but I get what she meant.
Well, y’all, this has been one for the books. Birdie, Leon, Verna Sue—thank you kindly for joinin’ me today and helpin’ me pick through this great big Southern word salad. And to all our listeners out there, if you’ve got a term for groceries you’ve been sittin’ on like a broody hen, send it our way.
Next week, we’ll be explorin’ the complex world of ghost lights and their supposed connection to a particularly haunted Waffle House in Pine Log, Georgia. So grab your flashlights and your hashbrowns!
Till then, keep your porch lights burnin’ and your pantry full of good words.
Copyright © 2025 by Paul Henry Smith
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