Taylor's Pork Roll

An old friend from high school mentioned Taylor’s Pork Roll on his Facebook site the other day. It planted a seed in my head that immediately took root. It’s like someone whistling a jingle or a song hook from a TV show that you’ve heard a thousand times. Not even as subtle as a Trojan Horse, it doesn’t disguise itself or sneak in, it just walks boldly right into your brain, friendly as hell perhaps but it totally takes over. You hear that jingle all day long, over and over and …over. That’s how it was with Rich Bartel’s reference to Taylor’s Pork Roll. Once he got me started, I mentally grilled it, fried it, made sandwiches on hamburger rolls, and slathered grainy mustard on thick piggy slices of it. So I found myself at 4am pushing my mind’s eye to retrieve the image of the Wal-Mart cooler where sausage & bacon live to see if I remembered any Taylor’s Pork roll there. No luck, I really don’t think they stock it. Rarely do I see it carried in Southern stores. Mostly it is a Northeast food item. Ground pig parts. It’s just that when you grill it or fry it a bit aggressively, the burn marks add flavor that is enhanced by the ooze of caramelized pork fat and sugars…Like my friend says: why are the very unhealthiest foods the most delicious? I don‘t know but think it best to exercise moderation in all things, including moderation.

So, yes I love that fabric covered roll of mystery pig parts ground up and pressed into service for all of mankind to enjoy…but apparently only if that mankind happens to live in the Northeastern United States, preferably New Jersey. Certainly it would be a plus if the enjoy-er had a name like Vinnie or Tony and also wore a wife beater T-shirt that hugged his upper torso and made him look a bit like a pork roll himself. But mostly it’s all about childhood memories, and about Mom. Because Mom was always there to see to it that we had a “good breakfast”, and Taylor’s Pork Roll played a part in that. Cod Fish cakes, Kippered Herring…lots of scrambled and fried eggs… In those days that was apparently a key to predicting success in the day ahead. Kind of like the New York suburb version of poking through chicken entrails, the better the breakfast, the more we could predict that we would have a good day. Cereal would certainly translate to just a fair day and of course no breakfast was a certain recipe for disaster. I think Dad probably just had several Camel cigarettes for breakfast so it’s amazing that he didn’t rush right out and butcher a neighbor or two. Of course we don’t really know just what he was up to every day when he “went to work”. I mean that “going to work stuff” was such a shield it could pretty much cover all bases. Once Dad was in his suit there was no questioning his intent, and when the train brought him home 9 hours later to smoke a Camel or two for dinner, he was equally bulletproof. He had done his job. He had donned his suit of armor, rode the iron steed into the city, fought the good fight for his queen, and now all he asked for was a Coke, a Camel, and maybe a little bubbly Lawrence Welk on TV.

Dad cared about dinner about as much as he cared about breakfast. But Mom cared, she cared big time. If we all started the day with a “good breakfast” we ended it with an equally “nice dinner”. Often dinner was a meat item, a starch like potatoes or rice, and of course, a vegetable. Usually the veggies were cooked in a pressure cooker that had a round metal hockey puck riding the steam shot from a valve on the lid. It controlled the internal pressure, bucking up and down, whistling and spitting like a cowboy trying to ride a bronco of hot compressed air. That pressure cooker had a safety valve too. It was a very small circular ring of soft metal that could blow out into the ceiling if ever the steam got too explosive and tried to bust out the walls of the pot itself. I was truly conflicted about that valve, always wanting to see it blow, but I thought it best to stay clear of any potential trajectory just in case. Mostly I remember Mom cooking frozen blocks of chopped spinach in the pressure cooker…oh, and also frozen blocks of horse meat to feed the dogs.

Mom wore pearls, and a dress, and Channel No 5. She used two matching gold hairpins in her blond hair, wore a big diamond wedding ring, and two small “safety rings” to keep the big ring on tight. One safety ring ran a full circle of small diamonds around her finger, the other one was rubies, I think. Those safety rings fascinated me for some reason. Mom never sweat, she was never dirty or disheveled, she never swore or even raised her voice, but she was the boss over Dad, and he was the boss over us kids. For me, Mom was about the prettiest lady there ever was, something like Grace Kelly. I remember seeing her at a cocktail party wearing a colorful tiara and looking like royalty, which seemed quite appropriate for her. Actually though, Dad looked a bit like Prince Rainer. I remember from the newsreels that Prince Rainer smoked a lot too.

After dinner was over, I would pick up Dad’s silver ashtray and empty it into the trash can under the sink. When I rinsed it under water the face of the eagle on the Mexican silver dollar in the center of the ashtray would shine brightly from the frequent abrasion of burning tobacco and Pernica’s bi-weekly cleaning with Gorham’s silver polish. Tarnish never had a chance to build up. Our house was that way too. Untarnished, because of Mom. She was my best friend and my security and my protector. If a wild Wolverine had come running at any of her kids, it would have gone badly for the Wolverine. Of course it was good to remember the pecking order if Dad started to rumble to much in our direction; Dad was boss over us kids, and Mom was boss over Dad. So ultimately, it was Mom’s world, I liked that. She ran the show with quiet strength, organizational skills to shame any corporate CEO, and unconditional love for her brood. Every kid should be so lucky to grow up with a Mom like that.