When my father returned from visiting his sister in southern New Jersey, he dutifully brought back scrapple. (I was told that Transportation Safety Administration employees at the airport were worried by the four foil-wrapped blocks he was transporting in his luggage.)
So breakfast this morning is quite the anticipated meal here, even if the ingredients are revolting and conjure images of The Jungle.
Tasty pork tongues. Surely rat hairs also slip into the mix.
Even with that list of deliciousness, scrapple brand is always a debate among aficionados. Two years ago, at a family gathering in Maryland, we had a scrapple tasting in an effort to end the family squabbles. I’m firmly in the Habbersett camp. But, sadly, my last trek east included scrapple from a sustainable Amish farm.
Sustainable, responsible, but not Habbersett.
I know I’ve essentially written this post before, but scrapple deserves some sort of pomp.