Banana pudding. What does that term mean to you?

If you’re not from the South, it might conjure up an image of an instant pudding box featuring a clip-art banana bunch and an ingredients list that includes artificial flavorings and Yellow No. 5.

That’s what came to my mind while standing at the counter of Memphis’ Central BBQ while in town for a food journalism conference last month. My companion, an alt-weekly dining editor from Atlanta, asked if I wanted banana pudding.

I raised my eyebrows. “Um … ?”

“You’ll like it,” she assured me. I remained skeptical.

Minutes later, I held a paper cup of fluffy, vanilla-scented mousse swirled with whipped cream and mottled with pecan shortbread crumbs. Fresh banana slices dotted the delicate mixture with just a hint of banana flavor, so unlike the oppressive yellow mess I was expecting.

So that’s banana pudding in the South.

Essentially a trifle, the basic formula is vanilla custard layered with sliced bananas and cookies (traditionally vanilla wafers) and topped with whipped cream or meringue. The dish is chilled, the cookies soften and by the time you scoop it onto your plate the flavors and textures have melded into a creamy, banana-studded delight heaping with nostalgia.

It’s a dessert stamped in Southern culture, a staple of barbecue joints, church potlucks and family gatherings. Its association with the South has been attributed to factors like the region’s fixation with super-sweet desserts (bonus that it doesn’t require an oven on a hot day) and bananas’ historical import route through Louisiana.

Oxford, Mississippi-based food writer Laurie Triplette wrote a column last year for hottytoddy.com on the history of banana pudding in the South. I talked with Triplette that evening in Memphis after tasting my first banana pudding. The best recipe, she said, is the one your mama made. Hers is marked by a meringue topping that her grown son insists is key.