This One's for Retwin

So, imagine you leave on an errand with a pal of yours who's from the upper midwest, it's late at night in a tourist area, and you're looking for food. You drive past a diner-type breakfast joint and see that scrapple is being advertised on their sign.

Do you tell the nice midwestern boy what scrapple is just to see his reaction, or do you pretend not to know when he reads the sign aloud in a curious, but confused-sounding voice?

I chose to explain it, perhaps giving a slightly more disgusting definition than was necessary, much the same way that the truth is stretched for kids on Halloween, when they visit a haunted house.

I just read that again, and I can hardly believe it was possible to make scrapple sound more disgusting than it actually is, but I believe I may have given the impression that night, all those years ago, that scrapple is basically what the cook in a diner can scrape up on the grill and mash together into a patty, and that's cooked again in some grease and then served. Yep. If it's possible that there's something more disgusting to imagine eating than scrapple actually is, then what I described is about the only thing. It's also not that terribly far from the truth.

I'm still staying with my parents, showing off my offspring to them, and I saw these containers of (urk) commercially-produced scrapple next to the bacon in the disgusting-meats-you-really-shouldn't-eat case. I just had to snap a picture (hey, I have a baby, I go nowhere without a camera) and post it along with this nostalgiac big D memory.