I’ve come across some odd menu items as I’ve travelled to different
areas of the country. I find it interesting
that each region has specific local delicacies that those folks consider
staples, while the rest of us might not consider eating them at all. This weekend I was in the Highlands of
North Carolina, just outside of Boone, and as I looked at the breakfast menu of
a local diner, I came across a selection I had never seen before. Along with other breakfast meat options, such
as “bacon,” “sausage,” “ham” and “steak,” was a listing for “Livermush.”
For those not aware (like me), I have learned that “livermush” is made up of pig
liver, cornmeal, sage, black pepper, and apparently anything left from the pig
after all the good stuff is taken. This
is pureed into a “mush” and formed into a loaf, where it is then refrigerated
until it “congeals.” When the “meat” is
needed, a slice is carved off the loaf, then fried and served for breakfast,
or possibly on a sandwich.
Not to offend those raised on “livermush,” but whether separate
or combined, the words, “liver,” “mush,” and “congeal” are not in the least bit
appetizing to me.
Now, anyone who looks at me can tell that I am not a
stickler for healthy food options. I’ll
choose hot wings over a salad any day of the week. However, I do
have my limits, and “livermush” is over the ridge and out of viewing distance of
the line I won’t cross. That being
said, I did eat Spam when I was a kid.
In fact, I have very pleasant memories of Mom frying Spam to a golden
brown, covering it with a slice of Velveeta cheese (which would probably do
wonders for a slab of “livermush”) and serving it up for summer lunch. Unlike
many meals Mom fixed that I have attempted to recreate as an adult, I have not
attempted the “fried Spam and Velveeta sandwich.” I just don’t think I would have her magic
touch.
Spam is probably a first cousin to “livermush,” as is the
northern relative “Scrapple,” which I have also not sampled. Scrapple has similar content, and it can be
argued whether the choice of the word “Scrap” in its name is better than “liver”
or “mush.” I am on the fence.
I remember when I was a kid and Dad bought some hogs to have
prepared for hams, bacon, sausage, etc.
After they were slaughtered and processed, he came home from the butcher
with a box of hog heads. This was
fascinating to me at the time, and I watched with morbid curiosity as he boiled
them and worked to remove the meat. He
chopped up what needed to be chopped after it came off the bone and added
various spices and vinegar to make what he called “souse,” but which is also
known by the more unappetizing name “head cheese.” He talked about having watched his Dad make it
and I’m sure at the time I thought, “someday, I’ll teach my children how to do
this.” One bite of the finished product
was all I needed to swear off on “souse” for the rest of my life, and therefore
end the dream of sharing the making of “head cheese” with my kids. I know they are grateful.
I must admit, however, that I have come across a local “delicacy”
that is so unappealing to me that I would choose “Livermush,” or “Scrapple,” or
probably even “head cheese” rather than partake. When I visited Rochester, New York with a
co-worker several years back, the locals insisted that we try what is lovingly known to them as a “garbage
plate.” In appearance, it actually does look like the
plate used to scrape all the leftovers together to transfer to the trash.
Built on a base of macaroni salad, home fries and baked beans
(one on top of the other); meats are chosen to add layers, including hamburgers,
fish, ham, chicken tenders, red hot dogs or white hot dogs, and then topped
with mustard, onions and hot chili sauce. If
you say to yourself (as I did initially), that you like some of those things separately,
so it might not be so bad, then you will probably find yourself unprepared (as
I was) for the nauseating visual of the garbage plate that they proudly present to you.
I poked at it with my fork for a while before giving up and
deciding that my “garbage plate” needed to go home to the garbage. My co-worker was braver and had a “when in
Rome” attitude that pushed him to persevere and taste the full “Rochester Garbage
Plate” experience. He spent most of his
evening in his hotel room sick, and soon after converted to a Vegan life-style
that he continues to this day.
I guess we all have our food eccentricities. When I married Connie, she was shocked to
learn that I grew up eating Chili mixed with spaghetti noodles. I’m sure this was a poor family way of making
the food go further, but I’ve also been a strong believer that adding pasta (or
cheese) to almost anything makes it better (unless it’s a “garbage plate,” which
is a concept that cannot be saved).
I can’t help but wonder what kind of things we eat now that
will be strange to my grandchildren and great grandchildren. In the meantime, I’ll stay on the lookout for
local delicacies, and if they don’t have the words “liver,” “mush” or “garbage”
in the name, I might even give them a try.
Further reading, for those with strong stomachs:
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