Family recipes are a way to connect generations, but what happens when you’ve got grandma’s recipe, and it doesn’t have exact measurements? We also talk with Ohio poet laureate Kari Gunter-Seymour about Appalachia, poems — and getting published. And we revisit a story about an attraction at the confluence of the New and Gauley rivers — and the man who put it there.
Family recipes are a way to connect generations, but what happens when you’ve got grandma’s recipe, and it doesn’t have exact measurements?
We also talk with Ohio poet laureate Kari Gunter-Seymour about Appalachia, poems — and getting published.
And we revisit a story about an attraction at the confluence of the New and Gauley rivers — and the man who put it there.
You’ll hear these stories and more this week, Inside Appalachia.
A West Virginia Woman Reverse-Engineers Grandma’s Potato Candy
Old family recipes are shared and passed down through Appalachia. Sometimes, they come on fingerprint smudged, handwritten note cards stuffed in wooden boxes. Others show up in loose-leaf cookbooks. These family heirlooms can be a way to connect with the past. But not all of those hand-me-down recipes use exact measurements. So how do you know you’re getting it right?
For Brenda Sandoval in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, it involved some trial and error — and an assist from a cousin. Folkways Reporter Capri Cafaro has the story.
Brenda Sandoval rolling potato candy. Credit: Capri Cafaro/West Virginia Public Broadcasting
Ohio’s Poet Laureate Celebrates Appalachia
Kari Gunter-Seymour is Ohio’s third poet laureate since the state created the position in 2016.
She’s an earnest cheerleader for Appalachian Ohio, which, as she points out, represents about a third of the state.
Gunter-Seymour is the author of several poetry collections. She’s the editor of “I Thought I heard a Cardinal Sing,” which showcases Appalachian writers in Ohio, as well as eight volumes of “Women Speak,” an anthology series featuring the work of women writers and artists from across Appalachia.
Producer Bill Lynch spoke with Gunter-Seymour about poetry, getting published, and the Appalachian part of Ohio.
When To Consider Assisted Living For Your Parents
One of the hardest parts of caring for aging parents is deciding when they need professional care. Whether that’s in-home services, assisted living, or something else. Families have to consider what’s best for their loved ones – and how to pay for it.
WVPB’s Eric Douglas spoke with Chris Braley, the owner of an assisted living and memory care facility in West Virginia.
There’s A Bus On A Rock In A River
Anna Sale. Credit: WNYC
If you listen to the popular podcast Death, Sex & Money, you know Anna Sale. Back in 2005, Anna was a reporter for West Virginia Public Broadcasting. She got curious about an old bus that sits on a rock at the confluence of the New and Gauley rivers, just past the town of Gauley Bridge. It’s not far from one of West Virginia’s best known roadside attractions, The Mystery Hole.
In 2005, Anna traveled by boat with former WVPB Video Producer Russ Barbour to meet the man behind the mystery. With warm weather and summer travel not that far away, we brought this story back.
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Our theme music is by Matt Jackfert. Other music this week was provided by…Kaia Kater, Jeff Ellis, Erik Vincent, Eck Robertson, Chris Knight and Tyler Childers.
Bill Lynch is our producer. Our executive producer is Eric Douglas. Kelley Libby is our editor. Our audio mixer is Patrick Stephens. Zander Aloi also helped produce this episode.
You can send us an email at InsideAppalachia@wvpublic.org.
Juan Ríos grew up in Mexico City where frijoles charros are ubiquitous. Frijoles charros — or charro beans — is a dish that originated in the ranching communities of rural northern Mexico. Growing up, it’s a dish that Ríos ate regularly. Yet when he opened a Mexican restaurant in Wellston over a decade ago, Ríos didn’t include frijoles charros on the menu. But recently, he’s started offering it.
This story originally aired in the Feb. 24, 2023 episode of Inside Appalachia.
A bowl of brothy pinto beans is a comfort food for lots of folks in Appalachia. In the former coal town of Wellston, Ohio, one man is serving up soup beans that remind him of his childhood home.
Juan Ríos grew up in Mexico City where frijoles charros are ubiquitous. Frijoles charros — or charro beans — is a dish that originated in the ranching communities of rural northern Mexico. Growing up, it’s a dish that Ríos ate regularly. Yet when he opened a Mexican restaurant in Wellston over a decade ago, Ríos didn’t include frijoles charros on the menu. But recently, he’s started offering it.
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WELLSTON, OHIO — As I walked off the quiet streets of downtown Wellston, Ohio and into Viva Jalisco, all my senses lit up. Lively mariachi music played throughout the dining room. The walls and booths were decorated with brightly colored depictions of agave farms and Frida Kahlo paintings. The scent of garlic and onions and chillies wafted through the air.
I was greeted by Juan Ríos, the owner of Viva Jalisco. Ríos took me back into the kitchen where a pot of frijoles charros was simmering on the stove.
“This is for frijoles charros,” Ríos said, showing me the pinto beans. “Right now, we cook for probably another 20 minutes.”
Ríos moved to the United States when he was 20. Since then, he has primarily worked in restaurants. He started out bussing tables and washing dishes. Then he learned to cook, and eventually he opened his own restaurant. Ríos’s mom gets a kick out of the fact that he has learned to cook because it wasn’t something he did while living in Mexico. He said when he was growing up, his mom and sister cooked.
“And we come here, you see, we’re cooking now here,” Ríos said. My mom laughs at me because, ‘You see, you’re in the United States and you’re cooking now yourself.’”
When he was learning to cook, Ríos sometimes called his mom to ask for advice. “Sometimes I say, ‘Mom, can you tell me how to make this?’ If she knows how to make it, they tell me how to make it,” Ríos said.
One dish that Ríos remembers his mom making back in Mexico City is frijoles charros or charro beans, the same dish he was making that day in Wellston. “Charros” in Spanish means “cowboy.” So the name “frijoles charros” harkens back to the stew’s history as an important food tradition in rural ranching communities of northern Mexico. In order to sustain the workers during long days of herding cattle, the stew was packed with protein. Along with beans, frijoles charros is heavy on the meat.
In his version, Ríos cuts up three different kinds of meat to add to the beans. “Bacon, hotdogs — we call salchichas — and ham,” Ríos said.
Ríos explained that growing up, frijoles charros was something the women in his family made for special occasions or large gatherings. Like weddings, holidays, and quinciñeras. He said the soup beans were served at the beginning of the meal.
“Before you got your meal, you got your frijoles charros,” Ríos said. “And you can get your chips, your tortilla. Just pour hot sauce — you pour onto your frijoles charros, and start eating before your meal comes.”
In addition to being a staple at family gatherings, frijoles charros is a common side dish in restaurants throughout Northern Mexico and along the US-Mexico border. But historically, it’s not something that is often seen on menus at Mexican restaurants in southern Ohio.
Elena Foulis grew up in Northern Mexico and moved to Ohio at the age of 17. Foulis lived in Ohio for about 30 years, where she went on to teach at The Ohio State University. These days, she’s at Texas A&M, but is also working on a digital oral history project about Latines in Ohio, which is being archived at the Center for Folklore Studies at Ohio State. Foulis thinks one reason that charro beans aren’t as visible in southern Ohio might have to do with spice.
“I would say that the fact that traditionally charro beans have been spicy, that might be what maybe makes Mexican restaurant owners not make as much or not have it on their menu. Because of the level of spiciness,” Foulis said.
Foulis explained that when she first moved to Ohio around 30 years ago, a lot of the Mexican restaurants in the area were white-owned. And they catered to a mostly non-Mexican, non-Latinx audience. So they were cautious about not making their food too spicy. And the food they did serve was often a kind of Tex-Mex.
“When I say Tex-Mex, it’s the meals that always come with rice and beans and maybe cheese right on top,” Foulis said. “The influence of chips and salsa always at the table, which you don’t always find in restaurants in Mexico.”
Foulis said that over the past decade or so, more and more Mexican-owned restaurants and taquerías have popped up in Ohio. And they’re offering dishes geared more towards Mexican and other Latinx consumers. Things like menudo and tacos made with tongue and tripe.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a traditional American restaurant that ever has tongue on their menu,” Foulis said. “So I think that a lot of the Mexican restaurants that are Mexican-owned in Ohio have this sort of mix of dishes on their menus… So you do have some dishes that have more of a Tex-Mex flavor. And then you have other dishes that are clearly more for the Mexican consumer.”
Foulis said that having that mix of dishes is a way for restaurant owners to survive while also maintaining a taste of home. And she said it’s an invitation for non-Mexican customers to try something new.
Juan Ríos stirs the pot of frijoles charros in the kitchen at Viva Jalisco. Ríos offers the dish once a week on the buffet line, and he plans to add it to the menu. Credit: Nicole Musgrave/West Virginia Public Broadcasting
Back in the kitchen at Viva Jalisco, Ríos added a large can of jalapeños to the pot to give his soup beans some heat. “So we pour jalapeños with the juice. You see the juice?” Ríos said. He explained the jalapeños make the beans a little bit spicy.
When Ríos first started working in restaurants around southern Ohio, he noticed that most of the customers were weary of spicy foods. So frijoles charros was not something he put on the menu when he first opened his restaurant. But now that he has been in the region for a couple decades, he has seen a shift. People are requesting more spice.
“We’re here for almost 20 years,” Ríos said. “A lot of people have started asking for hot sauce, jalapeños.”
And customers have actually started asking for frijoles charros by name. Sometimes it’s Mexican or Mexican-American customers who are in Wellston for travel or work.
“Customers come from Texas, California, Florida,” Ríos said. “They probably travel in United States or work construction.”
Ríos said they often ask: “Hey amigo, you have frijoles charros?”
But sometimes it’s non-Mexican customers who ask for the stew after having tried it at another restaurant. Ríos has also noticed people requesting other traditional Mexican dishes that are becoming better known throughout the United States. Things like tacos al pastor and elote or Mexican street corn.
“A lot of people — a lot of American people love it now, traditional Mexican food,” said Ríos.
With changes in customer base and customer preferences, Ríos has started serving frijoles charros once a week on the buffet line at Viva Jalisco. And he plans for the dish to become a permanent fixture on the menu.
“I got a new menu coming, probably in the next few weeks. We’re going to add frijoles charros to the appetizers,” Ríos said.
And he said that there are also a lot of days when there’s a pot of frijoles charros simmering on the stove at the restaurant — customers just have to know to ask for it. For Elena Foulis, she encourages non-Latinx customers to seek out these foods that might not be as familiar to them.
“You can have your, sort of, traditional comfort food, or what you associate with Mexican or Tex-Mex,” Foulis said. “But look for other dishes that might interest you. They might become your favorite. So why not give it a try?”
A bowl of frijoles charros sits to the right of a bowl of refried beans. While refried beans are a standard side dish in most Mexican restaurants in Southern Ohio, frijoles charros often accompany the main meal at restaurants in northern Mexico and along the US-Mexico border. Credit: Nicole Musgrave/West Virginia Public Broadcasting
In the kitchen at Viva Jalisco, the day’s pot of frijoles charros finished cooking. Amidst the sound of the on-duty cook cutting onions, Ríos ladled me out a piping hot bowl. “So you can try the frijoles charros. But be careful, it’ll be hot,” Ríos said.
As someone who isn’t too keen on spicy food, I was a little nervous. But the smoky flavor, the rich broth, and the acidity of the pickled jalapeños won me over.
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This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council.
The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts, and culture.
One woman in Moorefield, West Virginia didn’t grow up eating pinto beans in her home country of Honduras, but has incorporated them into her cooking since moving to the Mountain State.
Even though pinto beans aren’t native to Appalachia, they’ve become a staple in many of the region’s food traditions. One woman in Moorefield, West Virginia didn’t grow up eating pinto beans in her home country of Honduras, but has incorporated them into her cooking since moving to the Mountain State.
Emerita Sorto has been serving up traditional Honduran and Salvadoran food at her restaurant, Pupuseria Emerita, for about six years. The menu includes bean-filled dishes like baleadas and pupusas. Inside Appalachia folkways reporter, Nicole Musgrave, spoke with Sorto and her teenage granddaughter, Vanessa Romero, about the kinds of beans they serve.
Sorto grew up in Honduras and primarily speaks Spanish. Romero was on the call to translate for her grandmother.
Emerita Sorto (as translated by Vanessa Romero): I mostly use pinto beans with most of my plates. I also use red beans.
Sorto moved to the United States when she was 30 and has lived here about 30 years. She said in Honduras, she grew up eating beans with most every meal, primarily red beans and black beans. But pinto beans weren’t as common. However, they’re the main bean she uses at the restaurant.
Nicole Musgrave: Emerita, you said that you grew up eating red beans and black beans a lot. But I’m curious, why do you use pinto beans at the restaurant?
Sorto (as translated by Romero): The majority of my customers are American, so we usually use pinto beans in our plates. A lot of Latinos are used to eating red beans, but I think both enjoy all sorts of beans.
Sorto said she serves pinto beans two ways: as whole beans and as mashed, refried beans. In both varieties, she adds ingredients like garlic, onion, salt, tomatoes, and green bell peppers to give the beans more flavor.
Musgrave: And how did you learn to make the beans like that? Is that a recipe that you learned growing up in Honduras?
Sorto (as translated by Romero): My mother taught me when I was a little girl. And when I came to the United States, I decided to use other beans with the same recipe.
And now, Sorto teaches others to cook. She has taught family members as well as people at the church she attends. Even her granddaughter, Vanessa Romero, is learning to cook. Romero said she knows how to make fried plantains, but there are some recipes she hasn’t learned yet.
Musgrave: And I forgot to ask you, how do you refer to your grandmother?
Romero: I call my grandmother “abuela.”
Musgrave: And have you learned your abuela’s bean recipe?
Romero: No, but my mother has.
Musgrave: Okay, so maybe one day?
Romero: Yeah, maybe one day.
Even though she doesn’t cook them yet, Romero says she does enjoy eating the beans her abuela makes. Her favorite way to eat them is on a baleada, a traditional Honduran dish where refried beans are spread onto a large flour tortilla, and usually topped with crema and crumbled cheese.
Romero: I think my grandmother’s food is very authentic.
Romero lives an hour east of Moorefield in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. But she enjoys spending time with Sorto in her restaurant. Romero said she is glad to share Honduran food with Moorefield’s long-time residents, and with the many immigrant families who have migrated to the town to work at the local poultry factory.
Musgrave: And what is it like for you to share this aspect of your culture with people in Moorefield?
Romero: Well, I grew up here in America, but I grew up with Honduran culture. And I think not a lot of people talk about Hondurans and their culture and their food. So I like seeing people come in here and eat the food that we grew up eating…And I hope everyone will come by and enjoy some Honduran food.
This interview is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council. The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts, and culture.
Yann’s Hotdogs in Fairmont, West Virginia is easy to miss, if you’re not looking. It doesn’t even have a sign out front. Inside, there are only nine seats at the lunch counter. It’s a tiny place. But Yann’s has a huge, devoted following.
There are regulars who go there for lunch every day. There’s even a story about a homesick West Virginia boy stationed in Korea, who had his mom cold-pack the dogs and ship them overseas.
But if you wanted a dog from Russell Yann — the iconic restaurant’s equally iconic owner, who died on Jan. 15, 2021 — there were some rules to follow.
Courtesy of Pete Pacelli, on Instagram as @farmersdaughterwv.
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Yann’s hotdogs.
Hotdogs at Yann’s come with three toppings: mustard, diced onion and Yann’s special spicy sauce. You could ask Yann to leave any of those things off. But for goodness sakes, don’t ask for anything extra.
“You would never say ketchup,” said U.S. Magistrate Judge Michael Aloi, who used to practice law in Fairmont and knows the rules well. “If you said ‘ketchup’ you might as well just leave the place. All the regulars, their heads would pop up. You didn’t say ketchup. And it may be a felony in Marion County to have requested slaw on the hotdog.”
Yann was serious about his hotdogs. His parents started the restaurant in 1927. He started helping out when he was just five years old, and he promised his parents he’d keep the business going after they were gone.
Yann was so adamant about making the dogs, and making them his way, that he’d get kinda gruff if customers tried any funny business.
It’s a photo of Yann, standing behind the counter just like he did every day. He’s a smallish guy with white hair and glasses, dressed in a white polo shirt and a white apron. There are 18 hot dogs buns laid out in front of him, ready to be filled and served to customers. And he looks miffed that someone is taking his photo.
But really, that gruffness was just Yann’s sense of humor.
Marion County Sheriff Jimmy Riffle worked for Yann for over 20 years and got to see the man behind the act.
“If there was a fire in the community, usually when the firefighters got back to the station, there would be hotdogs and drinks for them,” Riffle said. “He had a routine of, every Tuesday, sending hotdogs and drinks to the West Virginia State Police because that was the day, back then, when they gave drivers exams and a lot of times they didn’t get out of the office for lunch.”
“If there was a bad wreck or the police departments were out and the rescue squads were out, whenever they got back to the station there was always something for them,” Riffle said.
Yann showed that kind of courtesy to all his customers.
“If you’d gone in there more than once or twice. He would remember your order,” Riffle said. “Customers would just come in, sit down and we knew what they wanted. He’d make them and I’d set them in front of them.”
He was known to occasionally sneak Little Debbie Cakes in with kids’ orders. And he took the hotdogs on vacation with him.
“He used to make trips to Disney World in Florida. He would take stuff to make hot dogs there and make them for the staff and workers in Disney World,” Riffle said.
Aside from those Florida vacations, Yann was a constant presence at his restaurant. Even as he got older and his daughter Cathy Galambus returned home to help him run the place.
“Truly, he didn’t know anything else,” Galambus said. “He came from an Italian family that worked hard and he never really had any hobbies or anything. So he always said, ‘What would I do if I stayed home? I wouldn’t do anything. I would have anything to do.’ So he came to work.”
“And he loved it here,” she said. “This was his home. This is what he knew. And he enjoyed the people. It’s just the type of person he was and the background he came from.”
Then, of course, the COVID-19 pandemic hit.
Yann, 89 at the time, started staying home more to keep from getting sick. But he still made time to pass along the restaurant’s secrets to Galambus, including the recipe for the restaurant’s famous sauce, which until recently was known only to Yann.
“I moved back here with my dad when my mother passed away,” Galambus said. “And my promise to him was to keep it going. So that’s what I’m doing.”
The restaurant wasn’t open for several days following Yann’s death. A sign hung on the door. “Closed. Family Emergency.” Per his wishes, there was no public funeral.
But by the end of January, Galambus had the place back open. And ever since, the restaurant has been swamped by folks, coming by to get a few hotdogs and pay their respects to her dad.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how busy we’ve been. That’s the people outpouring their love back in,” Galambus said. “I don’t think he knew the impact he made on the community. He just did what he thought was the right thing. And everybody thought he was gruff and had a rough exterior, but he was really really soft at heart.”
Even his avowed hatred of ketchup had a reasonable explanation. Back in the day, Galambus says, the restaurant actually offered ketchup if customers wanted it. In those little packets. But one day during the lunch rush, a customer decided to smash one of the packets with a fist, right on the counter.
“It went everywhere,” Galumbus said.”It went all over the walls, all over the ceiling, everywhere. And that was the end of it. That put him over the edge.”
From that time on, ketchup was forbidden in Yann’s. He even kept a boombox behind the counter loaded with a clip from the movie “Dirty Harry: Sudden Impact.” If a customer asked for ketchup, Clint Eastwood’s disembodied voice would growl: “Nobody … I mean nobody … puts ketchup on a hotdog.”
And much like Inspector Harry Callahan, Yann was a larger-than-life character.
“You didn’t forget him once you met him,” Sheriff Riffle said. “He’ll be missed. Not just by family and friends, but by the community in general,” he said. “It’s one of those things, when somebody passes away … There won’t be another one.”
This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council. The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts and culture.
If you go to a West Virginia restaurant and order a hot dog with “everything,” most of the time you’ll end up with the same thing: a weenie in a bun topped with a beef-based chili (no beans), mayonnaise-based coleslaw, diced onion and mustard.
Some places leave off the slaw. Some places make the chili spicier than others. Some places put ketchup on it, much to the horror of slaw dog purists. But no matter these slight variations, the flavors remain more or less consistent.
Except in the little town of Marmet, West Virginia, about 10 miles outside the state capital. Here the slaw is yellow — because it’s made with mustard, sugar and apple cider vinegar, not mayonnaise. This lends the dog a complex sweet and tangy flavor.
The yellow slaw started in the 1930s at a Marmet restaurant called Blackie’s, which later became the Canary Cottage. In the 1970s came another restaurant called the Dairy Post, which was open until the early 2000s.
Zack Harold, WVPB
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Chum’s Hotdog stand in Marmet, W.Va.
After the Dairy Post closed, Marmet suffered a years-long drought of yellow slaw — until Frances Armentrout opened Chum’s in 2008. This tiny stand makes the original yellow slaw recipe, which Armentrout got from her friend Lou Kinder, former co-owner of the Dairy Post.
“She came in from out of state and showed me the recipes,” Armentrout said. “She’s a wonderful friend.”
Chum’s sells hundreds of hotdogs every day, most of which feature the iconic yellow slaw. Marmet Mayor Jay Snodgrass is a regular.
“Anybody that I have bring to meetings, I’ll try to get them down here at least once,” he said. “They always seem to fall in love with it. And they come back.”
Combine ingredients and leave overnight in refrigerator.
At the time, blog editor Staunton Means claimed he found the recipe in a box at a flea market — although he now admits that’s not true.
“As a blogger, especially when you’re a blogger about hot dogs, you don’t have a real strong sense of journalistic integrity,” he said. “I was approached by someone who claimed to have the famous Marmet yellow slaw recipe. But he swore me to secrecy and he said that, if his name got out or if anybody knew that he’d shared it, he’d be in big trouble. So I had to make up a cover story to honor my source.”
There’s an additional twist to the story. Although the recipe will render something pretty close to Chum’s yellow slaw, Frances says it isn’t the genuine article.
“It’s very different from ours,” she said after being shown the blog post. “There’s a couple things in here that we do not put in ours.”
So if you want the real deal, head to Chum’s in Marmet. Walk up to the window and say, “I’ll have a hotdog with everything.” Those magic words — and $1.85 — will get you a dog topped with chili, diced onion and yellow slaw. No mustard needed.
This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council. The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts and culture.
When you hear the word “gingerbread,” you might think Christmas. But in southeast Kentucky, when people of a certain age hear “gingerbread,” they think Election Day.
In a special report as part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Project, Nicole Musgrave, traces the surprising history of gingerbread in Knott County, Kentucky from everyday treat, to election time tradition, to fundraising champion.
Gingerbread Was A Household Staple
In her cozy kitchen in Hindman, Kentucky, LaRue Laferty watches over her teenage grandson, Jaxon Conley, as he makes a fresh batch of gingerbread. All of the ingredients are sitting on the green countertop of the kitchen island. So are the necessary tools, like metal baking sheets, measuring spoons, and a KitchenAid stand mixer.
Laferty, who is in her 80s, has a head full of short, white hair. She wears glasses and a green cotton face mask, and uses a walker to move around her kitchen. If you ask folks around Knott County who the best gingerbread bakers are, Laferty’s name usually comes up.
“I don’t really profess to be a gingerbread-making queen, but I do make a lot,” she says.
When she was growing up, gingerbread was a year-round household staple.
“Anytime we went to grandmother’s, she had it,” Laferty says. “And my mother made it all the time, she kept it made.”
Knott County gingerbread isn’t crisp, snappy cookies, and it’s not moist, fluffy cake. It’s somewhere in between. Bob Young is a local historian born and raised in Knott County. He is in his 70s and he remembers most of the women in his family made this style of gingerbread.
“Gingerbread as we knew it here was just a glorified biscuit,” Young says. “And full, absolutely full of molasses.”
Before white sugar became easily accessible in southeast Kentucky, molasses was the primary sweetener. Every fall, sugarcane farmers hosted stir-offs. Folks gathered to watch as the sugarcane juice was boiled down to a sticky syrup, and they left with full jars to stock their pantries.
Aside from powdered ginger, the other ingredients—flour, fresh eggs, buttermilk and lard—were things people already had on hand. That made gingerbread inexpensive.
“Gingerbread was something that anybody, anybody nearly could get,” Young says.
Just A Nice Little Way To Ask For A Vote
One place you were sure to find gingerbread in Knott County was at the polls on Election Day.
“The candidates, they would hire good gingerbread makers in the community to make gingerbread, and they would give it out at the polls,” Laferty says.
In the 40s and 50s, when Young and Laferty were growing up, it was a common practice.
“Republicans on this side, and the Democrats on that side,” Young says. “And they were all giving you gingerbread. So by the time you voted, you’d have a handful of gingerbread…It was just a nice little way to ask for a vote.”
Laferty says, “they didn’t call it ‘buying votes’ but it’s about what it amounted to.”
Corbett Mullins, another Knott County native, remembers his grandmother as a sought-after gingerbread-maker.
“She would go with her baskets of gingerbread to the polling grounds and hand out the gingerbread in that candidate’s name,” he says.
But during the 1960s, people began handing out something else.
“I hate to say it, but gingerbread was replaced by liquor,” Mullins says.
Then in 1974, Kentucky passed a law against campaigning within 100 feet of a polling place. This was the final blow for political gingerbread.
But surviving recipes may hold clues that link gingerbread and elections. Bob Young has noticed that a lot of recipes make huge batches, and he believes that’s because bakers were making gingerbread for the masses on Election Day.
“Why, some of those old recipes take a five-pound bag of flour,” he says.
How Much Ginger’s It Got In It?
These days, the annual Knott County Gingerbread Festival celebrates gingerbread’s ties to politics and features a gingerbread competition. There are lots of variations of this regional dessert, and everyone has their own preferences.
Mullins, who chaired the festival for decades, says texture is key.
“I have had gingerbread that’s been as dry as the Sahara Desert,” he says. “As soon as you get it chewed up you have to have a drink of water to refresh your mouth.”
Young is focused on ginger.
“Sometimes it would almost burn your tongue,” Young says. “Some people liked it really hot. And that was one of the things they’ll say, ‘How hot is this? How much ginger’s it got in it?’”
Over the years, LaRue Laferty has placed in the gingerbread competition a lot. One year, she entered three batches using different recipes.
“I come in first place and tied myself on second,” she says. “So I didn’t enter any more for a long, long time after that, because I thought, well, that’s good enough.”
The Knott County Gingerbread Festival was cancelled this year because of the pandemic, which was disappointing for Laferty.
“I threatened to go up there and set down on the street and put up a sign and have my own little festival,” she says.
During festival season, Knott County bakers typically sell gingerbread to fundraise for local causes and to earn extra cash. Even though this year’s festival was cancelled, Laferty’s daughter-in-law made close to 4,000 pieces of gingerbread, selling enough to raise nearly $2,000 for her church to pay its winter bills.
Nicole Musgrave
/
West Virginia Public Broadcasting
LaRue Laferty (left) with her grandson, Jaxon Conley. Conley has been making gingerbread with his grandmother since he was around two-years-old.
A Good Clean Way To Make a Little Extra Money
Back in the kitchen, the room is fragrant with the mingling of ginger, cinnamon, and clove. The oven timer goes off and Laferty takes out the pan. Once the gingerbread cools, her grandson, Jaxon Conley, takes a bite and assesses his work.
“I think it turned out pretty good,” he says. “It’s not too dry, but it’s still moist. And it’s still got the crispy edges on it, which I really like on gingerbread.”
Conley sold the batch he made to a relative. In the past, he has sold gingerbread at the local farmers market, to friends and neighbors, and to classmates at school. One year, he made enough to buy himself a bike.
Nicole Musgrave
/
West Virginia Public Broadcasting
The finished gingerbread. LaRue Laferty and Jaxon Conley wrapped each piece in a plastic sandwich bag in order to ship it to a relative who purchased the batch from Conley.
Laferty is glad her grandchildren are continuing the Knott County gingerbread tradition, and it gives her comfort to know they have a skill they can rely on if they need to.
“Later on when they get a little older, and maybe they need some extra cash…maybe they can make some gingerbread,” she says. “It’d be a good clean way to make a little extra money.”
This story is part of the Inside Appalachia Folkways Reporting Project, a partnership with West Virginia Public Broadcasting’s Inside Appalachia and the Folklife Program of the West Virginia Humanities Council. The Folkways Reporting Project is made possible in part with support from Margaret A. Cargill Philanthropies to the West Virginia Public Broadcasting Foundation. Subscribe to the podcast to hear more stories of Appalachian folklife, arts, and culture.
