Daily Archives: November 22, 2012


Today is just another day in Canada (the Great White North, where, incidentally, we do not have “black Friday” and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, dammit), but in the US of A it’s possibly the greatest manifestation of herd behaviour in a country that, for all its talk of individualism, has a heck of a lot of groupthink and herd behaviour. I mean, in Canada, we have Thanksgiving in October and it’s a long weekend where you probably go have dinner with your family, probably turkey. But in the US, there’s so much more to it. It’s on a Thursday, and on the day before, half of everyone has to go somewhere they are not. It’s the busiest travel day of the year. Wherever you are, you must go to not-there, at the same time as everyone else and taking the same means of transportation. On the day itself, everyone eats turkey, it has to be turkey, if it’s not turkey you pretend you’re eating turkey or you talk about how you’re not eating turkey, in fact many people call Thanksgiving “turkey day” rather than “Thanksgiving” (like the way Canadians call Victoria Day “May two-four”), and you stuff your face with all sorts of starches and other sides, especially cranberry sauce (if you don’t like cranberry sauce, I’ll have yours – seriously, mail it to me). You pig out, family style – oh, and to really go in style, you have to have pie. Lots of it. And then everyone watches football or something like that and/or snoozes, goes and smokes a stogie, argues about money or politics, and all those other things people do at family gatherings. Meanwhile, you could set up ten pins in the main street of town and have a game of bowling without being disturbed. And then the day after… oh, the horror. Let us not speak of the frenzied mass worship of the dark gods of commercialism, the bacchic fury, the torn garments and rent flesh and tramplings, when WALMART becomes ELPMART backwards. No, let us back up to that turkey for a moment.

Let us back up to the back end of that turkey, in fact. To the opening into which the stuffing was stuffed. There is a little nose of mostly fat there. It’s rather juicy, but a guilty pleasure for those who eat it and really a bit much for many. The same thing may be found on a chicken. So… what do you call that thing?

If you have a name for it, you probably call it the Pope’s nose, bishop’s nose, parson’s nose, or sultan’s nose. But it’s not a nose – it’s where the tail feathers were attached. But it’s not the tail. Turkeys and chickens don’t have tails. (That snake-like thing you may have found in the body cavity where the guts once were is of course the neck. Or what’s left of it.)

Well, someone knows what it’s called. For one, a commenter going by the alias roac on the article “Answers to Every Possible Thanksgiving Health Question” by James Hamblin on theatlantic.com does. What’s the word? Pygostyle.

Not bad: a word with two wishbones y and y (which, by the way, are roughly equivalent to your collarbone). Sort of looks a bit like “pig-out style,” doesn’t it? But don’t be misled by the resemblance to pygmy. The pronunciation is actually like “pie go style.”

The pyg is related to the pyg in callipygian (“nice butt”) and steatopygian (“fat butt”), though in this case the g is not “softened” since there’s a back vowel after it. It comes from Greek πυγή pugé “rump”. The style is not the style as in “You’ve got style” or stylus; those come from a Latin word stilus for a pen, from a root referring to a sharp point. This style comes from Greek στῦλος stulos “pillar”. So pygostyle is a Greek-derived way of making rump-pillar. Although, frankly, its object, in the context of a feast, is more of a rump filler. I’m not saying it’s your ticket from callipygian to steatopygian, but too much of it could certainly affect your style. But you’re not going to get too much pygostyle, anyway, so you’re safe. For which you may give thanks.

Thanks to Doug Linzey for suggesting today’s word.


Naturally, after talking about chitlins and grits yesterday, I wanted to have grits today.

Fortunately, this was possible. I have some Quaker Instant Grits, and I made some for breakfast.


Does it look like cream of wheat? It’s not all that different, really, except that it’s made with corn and so has a different taste and a bit of a more granular consistency.

And what is the difference between grits and polenta? Less than you might think. Mainly, grits are made with hominy, which is skinned and bleached corn – though apparently sometimes they’re made with just normal corn meal. Oh, and you eat grits mainly in the US, and mainly in the southern states, and so you typically have them (or it) with other good southern food. (I do love me some southern cooking. You shouldn’t eat it all the time – fat and starch are maybe a little predominant – but one of my favourite cookbooks is White Trash Cooking by Ernest Mickler, basically a collection of recipes from his family and friends for good ugly flavourful food.)

This also has some phonological implications for grits. If you have a Canadian accent, or any of quite a lot of other Anglophone accents, you of course say it [grɪts], with the [ɪ] variously high or low depending on where you’re from (some places you’re likely to get something close to [grɛts], likely in concert with a certain amount of creaky phonation, a.k.a. vocal fry). But that’s not how /grɪts/ is realized in many a southern US accent. “Short” vowels are often diphthongized in the southern US, and /grɪts/ can be realized as [griɛts] or [griəts] – a manifestation of the same phonological process of splitting a vowel into two parts with contrast between them that led to the Great Vowel Shift, wherein all our long vowels became diphthongs in the couple of centuries before Shakespeare.

A warning, though: if you do not speak with a southern US accent, you will likely sound stupid saying grits in the southern way in the middle of a sentence that is otherwise in a non-southern accent. It’s like saying “Nollins” instead of “Neworlins” or “Norlins,” or “Cans” instead of “Cairns” (Australia), when you normally pronounce /r/. People who sound like they’re saying “Nollins” or “Cans” are saying the /r/; they’re just saying it as a lengthening of the preceding vowel. You, in your accent, should say the /r/ the way you normally say it. Otherwise you’re shifting for just one word into someone else’s phonotactics, switching phonological realization patterns for one word. It’s desperately incongruous.

But back to the southern connection. I bet a lot of people just know of grits as “something southern people eat” without knowing exactly what they are, let alone ever having had them. Millions of people will surely think first of Flo (played by Polly Holliday, from Alabama) in the TV show Alice – a southerner working as a waitress in Mel’s Diner in Arizona. Her catchphrase was “Kiss my grits!” (Hear her say it near the end of this clip.)

So naturally you’re likely to fancy yourself feeling mighty southern if you eat some grits. It seems almost like the haggis of the south in regard to the regional pride attached to it (except that people generally don’t think of grits as disgusting, as many – not including me – do of haggis). It’s a signature bit of southern cuisine in spite of the fact that it’s not breaded or fried or barbecued or covered in some sort of sauce. Well, it’s made of corn. Shut up and eat. I suspect that it has a certain grab-and-stay power just because of the grabby sound of the word ([gr] onset) and the other tastes grit has – notably pluck and courage, but also stubble and dirt: an emphasis of honest poor-folks origins.

Grit as in “dirt” and grits as in “ground corn” are, by the way, from different Old English roots, but they are likely related further back and have also mutually influenced over the course of English history. On the other hand, groats is considered a variant of grits – one that tends to refer specifically to oats (or as otherwise specified, for instance buckwheat groats), which grits seems originally to have referred to as well – or wheat.

But, you know, as Wilson Fowlie pointed out to me today on my note on chitterlings, there’s probably someone somewhere who will insist on saying groats when talking about grits. After all, grits is what normal people call them – people who don’t have a whole lot of education and don’t speak “formal” English. So therefore if there’s a version of the word that’s more associated with England and less associated with those southern people, it must be the more correct or better version, right?

Just like I’m sure there are restaurants that do the most precious imaginable variations on grits, too. You know, “Crawfish Grit Croquettes with creole mustard foam and green onion ‘dust’” or “Herb crusted Maple leaf duck breast Smoked and sliced over Creamy herb infused grits and finished with Wild berry confit salad.” (Note the arbitrary capitalization.) Now, I like novelty in foods, and fusion, and so on, and I eat for flavour, not ethnology (“authentic” is a deeply self-deceptive concept in intercultural food explorations), but precious fads can sometimes make me grit my teeth a little. Some of those chefs can kiss my grits… actually, they can leave them alone, thanks.