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.
