Thou Shalt Not Host Without The Sacred Bowl

In the South, there are three things you can count on: sweet tea, SEC football, and banana pudding at a potluck. Texas most certainly holds a seat at that SEC table now with the Horns and the Aggies. They certainly won't fall short at a tailgate.

Today, we concern ourselves with the quintessential Southern potluck table: fried chicken, deviled eggs, casseroles—and the crowning jewel, banana pudding.

I don't care who you are or how frou frou your image is of yourself. If your potluck doesn't have banana pudding, was it even a potluck? Bless your heart, but no.

Banana pudding didn't just appear one day—it descended from heaven in a Pyrex dish sometime in the 20th century. What started as a dessert became a religion. Somewhere along the way, we decided banana pudding wasn't optional but mandatory. It's not just a dessert. It's a Southern status symbol. The better your banana pudding, the higher your social standing.

Social standing is how you get elected to public office. Here in Texas, a US Senator put forth a brisket on social media that drew ire and almost a violent revolt. His chances for re-election have dropped more and more each day. To be fair, he's screwed up a magnitude more than the brisket, which was a capital offense in itself, but the one thing folks say in the middle of their typical insults is that he can't cook a brisket.

Thank God he didn't post a pudding. There would be a call to bring back tarring and feathering even sooner than anticipated. It's not off the table even now.

Pun intended.

Bananas, vanilla wafers, custard, and whipped topping. Each plays its part like members of a gospel choir that can actually sing, not those you might have known that sound like a herd of angry cats fighting in a burlap sack. Mess with the balance, and you're flirting with heresy. No one wants to see low-fat banana pudding on the table. Your doctor ain't here; at least, we hope they're not, and we're not telling on you.

Custard is what they call it outside of the South. But we all know what that is here. The Intergalactic NASCAR translator calls it "Nana Puddin'," so that's what we're rolling with.

Some of us backcountry GenXers have witnessed this in live play and don't want to see that pain again. You don't want to get it twisted. Call it right, or go pick yourself a switch.

Some folks add meringue. Others go all-in on Cool Whip. But God help the soul who tries to make it healthy. That's how you get yourself hurt. If we're going to sin, we aren't going to go halfway. We are going with the whole kit and kaboodle and pushing all the chips to the center of the table, even if they're banana chips.

You'd think a potluck was a friendly gathering, but when it comes to banana pudding, the reverence around that dish is a full-on culinary showdown. It's pretty much a redneck version of Gordon Ramsay's Master Chef. The only issue would be if Chef Ramsay chose to make a comment that was anywhere south of praise and adoration.

That would be the point where Bubba would tuck his fingers in his overalls and say with bitter hostility, "I heard you had somethin' to say about Momma's Nana Puddin'. You do know, sir, we done fought a Revolution with you boys. Had to put a boot in yer ass another time. Sure hate to go for three."

They know what they like. They only care how it eats. And I understand that.

The rules are simple and unwritten: You can bring store-bought fried chicken, and you can procure from the temple of KFC, but if you show up with banana pudding from a grocery store, don't expect to be invited back. If alcohol is somehow involved (it usually isn't), kneecaps might be affected. You may be afflicted even if the lot is sober.

Aunt Martha once accused my Cousin Linda of copying her recipe. They didn't speak for three years, but boy, were both puddings good. Don't tell either of them that I said that. I have enough problems, and for the moment, nana pudding ain't one.

You don't just eat banana pudding. You savor it, you celebrate it, and occasionally, you fight over the last serving. It goes without saying that whoever gets the first scoop might as well be royalty for the day.

The pudding bowl isn't just a dish—it's an altar. People gather around it like it's the Last Supper. It has all of the same features. The one who brought the best one is the Holy figure for the day, fawned upon and worshiped as a god or goddess of quality Southern dessert. At the same time, some poor bastard is bound to knock over the salt and betray the family the second they open their mouths with something stupid.

A worse situation is the godless gathering when banana pudding has skipped the station. Once, a potluck I attended didn't have banana pudding. The old folks almost called the police. They certainly called upon the Good Lord to strike a few folks with lightning.

He didn't oblige.

No banana pudding is like forgetting your kid's birthday—it's just not done. The old-timers will forget your name and who you belong to, but they ain't about to forget that pudding for a second. You can set your watch to that and take it to the bank.

I knew the dirty birds that missed the memo that day. It was a sad afternoon of tears and groveling. The next year, they brought two puddings. One for the table and one as an apology.

Banana pudding isn't just a dessert—it's the glue that holds Southern potlucks and civilization together. Sure, you could skip it, but why risk being disowned by your family and neighbors?

So, the next time you're invited to a potluck, remember: when in doubt, bring banana pudding. And make it from scratch. Your soul—and your Southern credibility—depend on it.