10 Alabama Dishes That Outsiders Always Mispronounce (And Locals Don’t Bother Correcting)
Nothing gives away an out-of-towner in Alabama faster than butchering the name of a beloved local dish.
As someone who’s lived in the Heart of Dixie my whole life, I’ve witnessed countless well-meaning visitors stumble over our unique food names.
The funny thing is, most Alabamians just smile and nod rather than correct these pronunciation faux pas. Here’s my rundown of the top 10 Alabama dishes that consistently trip up visitors’ tongues.
1. Conecuh Sausage: Not ‘Connect-Uh’
Lord have mercy, I nearly spit out my sweet tea the first time I heard a tourist ask for ‘Connect-uh’ sausage at our family barbecue! This smoky, savory sausage from Conecuh County is properly pronounced ‘kuh-NECK-uh’ with emphasis on that middle syllable.
My granddaddy used to say you can tell a true Alabamian by how they say Conecuh. The sausage itself is practically sacred around here – deeply smoky with a peppery kick that makes it perfect for breakfast, gumbo, or straight off the grill.
Visitors often try to apply logical pronunciation rules, but Alabama names laugh in the face of phonics. We’ve been making this sausage since 1947, and frankly, we’re too busy enjoying it to correct your pronunciation.
2. Cahaba River Catfish: The ‘CA-Hay-Ba’ Confusion
Every summer growing up, my uncle would bring home fresh catfish from the Cahaba River, and without fail, his Northern friends would call it ‘Ca-HAH-ba’ catfish. The proper pronunciation is ‘KA-hay-ba’ with that soft middle syllable that trips everyone up.
This river delicacy is a cornerstone of Alabama cuisine – cornmeal-crusted and fried to golden perfection. The catfish from this particular river has a cleaner taste than most, probably because the Cahaba is one of Alabama’s most pristine waterways.
Watching tourists stumble over the name has become something of a sport at riverside fish fries. Meanwhile, we’re too busy squeezing lemon over our crispy fillets to offer pronunciation lessons. Some things you just have to learn by listening.
3. Coosa River BBQ: Not ‘Cooz-A’
Strangers to our state almost always butcher this one, saying ‘COOZ-a’ when referring to our legendary riverside barbecue. The correct way is ‘KOO-sa’ – short, sweet, and with equal emphasis on both syllables. I’ve seen many a pitmaster’s eye twitch at hearing it mispronounced.
Growing up near the Coosa, Saturday meant slow-smoked pork with that distinctive white sauce that’s unique to North Alabama. The meat takes on a special flavor from hickory wood that’s harvested along the riverbanks, creating a hyper-local delicacy visitors rave about.
Funny enough, the worse someone pronounces it, the more likely they are to receive an extra-generous portion. It’s our passive-aggressive Southern way of teaching through kindness – bless their hearts!
4. Grits: It’s Not A Plural Word, Y’All
Yankees walk into diners asking for ‘a grit’ and immediately mark themselves as outsiders. I still remember my grandmother’s horror when a New York businessman visiting our home asked exactly that! Grits is always plural in form but singular in construction – it’s never ‘a grit’ or ‘the grit.’
This creamy cornmeal porridge forms the backbone of any respectable Alabama breakfast. Stone-ground is best, cooked low and slow with plenty of butter, salt, and often cheese or shrimp for those feeling fancy. The texture should be smooth but with a slight toothsome quality.
What really tickles me is when visitors ask if they can substitute oatmeal instead. At that point, most servers just smile politely while mentally revoking their Southern hospitality card. Some culinary sins are just unforgivable.
5. Collard Greens: The Missing ‘G’
Bless their hearts, tourists always emphasize the wrong syllable and pronounce every letter in ‘collard greens.’ Real Alabamians know it’s more like ‘KAHL-uhd greens’ – with that second ‘l’ nearly silent and the ‘g’ in greens barely making an appearance.
My mama used to simmer these leafy vegetables for hours with ham hocks until they surrendered into silky, potlikker-rich perfection. The secret ingredient most outsiders miss is a splash of pepper vinegar that cuts through the richness and brightens the whole dish.
I’ve watched countless visitors take their first bite with suspicion, then reach for seconds with enthusiasm. Meanwhile, we silently note their careful pronunciation of each consonant while we’re busy sopping up the precious potlikker with cornbread – the true measure of collard appreciation.
6. Cathead Biscuits: No Actual Cats Involved
The horrified look on my Northern cousin’s face when I offered her a cathead biscuit still makes me chuckle twenty years later! These oversized, fluffy delights earned their name because they’re roughly the size of a cat’s head – not because of any feline ingredients.
Outsiders tend to say it with a questioning tone, like they’re afraid of the answer. True Alabama cathead biscuits are made with White Lily flour (accept no substitutes) and buttermilk, with lard or shortening cut in by hand. The dough isn’t rolled but rather pinched off and gently shaped.
The real test comes when you split one open – steam should billow out, revealing a fluffy interior that’s perfect for sopping up gravy or molasses. And no, we don’t correct visitors who delicately ask what makes it a ‘cathead’ – sometimes the bewilderment is too entertaining.
7. Fried Green Tomatoes: The ‘Maters Debate
After that movie came out, everyone wanted to try fried green tomatoes, but few could ask for them properly. Around here, they’re often just ‘fried green ‘maters’ – with that distinctly Alabama slurring of ‘tomatoes’ into ”maters’ that no outsider can quite master.
I learned to make these from my great-aunt Lucille, who insisted on a cornmeal-flour mix for the coating and a cast iron skillet that hadn’t been washed with soap since the Roosevelt administration. The tartness of those unripe tomatoes against the crispy, salty crust creates a perfect contrast that’s uniquely Southern.
Tourists pronounce each syllable with such deliberate care that we can spot them a mile away. Meanwhile, we’re just amused that a humble poverty food from our gardens has become trendy in upscale restaurants across the country – usually at prices that would make our grandmothers faint dead away.
8. Red Eye Gravy: One Word Or Two?
First-timers to Alabama always pause before ordering ‘red-eye gravy,’ unsure if it’s hyphenated or two separate words. Then they completely mangle it by pronouncing it like ‘red eye’ instead of running it all together like we do: ‘reddai gravy.’
This simple ham dripping and coffee concoction gets its name from the reddish circle of fat that forms on the surface – resembling a bloodshot eye. My daddy would save the country ham drippings, add black coffee, and create this thin, savory sauce that’s perfect for soaking into cathead biscuits or grits.
The look of surprise when visitors taste the coffee undertones is priceless. Even funnier is watching them try to recreate it back home with fancy ham and espresso – missing the point entirely. Sometimes the simplest foods are the hardest to replicate without that Alabama touch.
9. Cracklin’ Cornbread: The Vanishing ‘G’
Nothing screams ‘not from around here’ like pronouncing the full ‘ing’ in cracklin’ cornbread. Last Thanksgiving, my brother’s Midwestern girlfriend carefully enunciated ‘crackLING cornbread,’ and my entire family exchanged knowing glances while keeping our mouths shut.
This cornbread variety is studded with pork cracklins – those crunchy bits of fried pork skin that add bursts of savory goodness. The batter must be mixed minimally and baked in a screaming hot cast iron skillet that’s been greased with bacon fat. The cracklins themselves should be freshly made, not those sad packaged versions.
What makes this dish so special is the textural contrast between the crispy bottom crust, tender bread, and chewy-crunchy cracklins. Visitors might pronounce it wrong, but they never turn down seconds – and that’s all the validation any Alabama cook needs.
10. Pecans: It’s ‘Puh-KAHNS,’ Not ‘PEE-Cans’
Nothing – and I mean nothing – identifies an outsider faster than saying ‘PEE-can’ instead of ‘puh-KAHN.’ My granddaddy grew these nuts commercially for forty years and would visibly cringe whenever he heard the Northern pronunciation, though he was too polite to correct anyone.
Alabama pecans have a distinctive sweetness and richness that makes them perfect for pies, pralines, or just eating by the handful. The sandy soil and humid climate of South Alabama creates ideal growing conditions for these native treasures that have been part of our foodways since before European settlement.
The real humor comes when someone uses both pronunciations in the same conversation, revealing their linguistic insecurity. Meanwhile, we Alabamians just keep passing the pie and silently judging. Some cultural divides are simply too wide to bridge – even over something as delicious as our state nut.