“she got 3 nitwit boys... who could not bake a passable biscuit even if you handed us one of those whop-‘em can for the Piggly Wiggly and prayed for bread. - The Best Cook in the World – Rick Bragg
Scribes write of the cornucopia of words added to dictionary in recent years - google (verb), texting, streaming, etc. But what of the words we lose – who is keeping track of those? "Whop-‘em can" and "switch" are two for the list.
I’m approaching the “old as dirt” phase of my life and we lost whop-‘em can before I knew it existed. Pillsbury stills makes whop-’em cans but advertise them under the droll “Poppin Fresh Rolls.”
What a great term – whop-‘em can. One of the many frustrations of my childhood was whooping the paper biscuit tube against the sharp edge of countertop and getting no pop. I would flail away with the subtleness of a flying hammer. My mother would take the tube from me and pop it open on the 1st whoop. Of course, if I had a brother or sister, I would have whooped them a top the head in a semi-serious attempt to pop open the tube.
Whop-‘em can also brought memories of another kind of whoopin'. The kind my Aunt warned my cousin of when his behavior crossed the boundary – “Yer fixin’ to git a whoopin.’”
Which brings us to another lost word – switch. My mother was more subtle than my Aunt and would ask me “You want me to get my switch?” Whatever behavior I was exhibiting would immediately cease with that question.
A switch is a thin flexible tree branch my mother would use to sting my “bottom.” When I was about 4 years old, I exhibited a behavior - I don’t recall what - that crossed a boundary. My mother didn’t ask me if I wanted her to get her switch, she told me she was “gittin' my switch.”
She left the kitchen to get her switch and in my panic I found the world’s best hiding place – under the dining room table. But not just under the dining room table - on top of the chairs under the table. We had a cherry colored dining room table with straight feet covered with metal. The table had an intricately embroidered tablecloth that hung long over the sides. So long it touched the white cloth chair seats. It was here that I hid – stretched out on top of the chairs behind the tablecloth.
I could hear my mother searching for me and her anger slowly turning to concern as I was nowhere to be found. She enlisted my father in the search – still nothing. Eventually I had the feeling I had to fess up – I could tell my mother was really getting concerned.
I popped out and went to my mother. Her look was one of relief, but I could see anger returning. “Where were you?” she demanded.
Even though it meant giving up the best hiding place in the world, I realized I better tell the truth – I told her of the laying on the chairs underneath the dinner room table trick.
At least I did not get a whoopin' with a switch.
Second Helping
The Book: The Best Cook in the World, Rick Bragg
