Scrapple

In 1993 I had breakfast in a diner somewhere in Pennsylvania where, perusing the pork options on the menu, I came across scrapple. I had no idea what it was, but my natural curiosity was spurred on by the Parker tune, Scrapple from the Apple, that I began whistling until my waitress arrived.

‘Oh hi’, I began, figuring this universal greeting was sure to break the ice. ‘This scrapple. What is it?’
‘It’s the waist of the pig’ she responded, her hands doing that unfurling motion they do when the brain’s trying to find the words.
‘Oh, right, belly of pork’ I volunteered.
‘No, no’, came the reply. ‘The waste of the pig. It’s the parts of the animal that aren’t required in all the other pork-producing processes. They are gathered together and formed into a log.’ I was in an agricultural area, and there was clearly no truck with squeam. ‘Then they take slices and fry them. That’s scrapple.’
‘I see’, I said, not really seeing. ‘You mean it’s offal.’
‘No’, she said. ‘It’s really not that bad.’

True.

Story.