Pork roll will always hold a special place in my heart, so I am forever writing or talking about it. This was an assignment to write a short travel piece. As usual, I chose to write about the town I grew up in.
Pork Roll @ The Parrot
Low tide isn’t a bad smell. If you are walking along Bay Avenue in Highlands, NJ and high tide was 12 hours ago, you are likely to smell the bay floor. The bay floor consists of centuries of pulverized clam shells, (possibly) doubloons from the old Pirate/Rum-Running days, and trash of the white variety. (By the way, it’s the Beach, not the “Jersey Shore”.) The low tide smell in Highlands is different from the low tide in other places in the best of ways.
The appreciation for the smell of low tide comes with living in a clam-digging town. You miss it when you leave and relish it when you come back. Living in the midst of it, though, you sometimes forget. Visitors need a little schooling in order to appreciate the smells of Highlands. Everything you eat will taste like everything you see, hear, and smell. This includes, but is not limited to, low tide, skunk weed, regular weed, fish, barnacles, sand, pork roll, pizza, hot sauce, Jay Muse, cheap beer, and stray cats. Also, cat fights (feline and human), fist fights, bar brawls, old briny seamen musings, the ghost ding-a-ling of the drawbridge that is in the middle of being taken down, seagulls, and barge horns. A pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich doesn’t taste right if there aren’t grains of sand involved, or you aren’t witness to some violence.
You will never eat a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich that tastes as good as the one you get at The Parrot. In a small town such as Highlands, there are few delis, but this place is the go-to place for a good pork roll, egg, and cheese (or a sub). Taste is partly smell and smell is partly taste and they are both connected. The sinuses of the locals can barely smell the nuances that a low tide pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich contains. Pork roll is salty enough without adding salt, but the salt air adds just the right hint of ‘extra’ salt: not overboard, not undertow.
The Parrot is one of those dining establishments that have been owned by the same family for generations. They either know your name already, or will assign you one on your first visit. It is really just a rinky-dink kind of diner with plastic stools along the bar and a few tables inside. There are a few picnic tables outside in the warmer months as well. The Parrot is the place you want to visit to pick up some subs and juice before heading to Sandy Hook on a summer day, or to have your 4am breakfast on your way to work on one of the clam or fishing boats. The ketchup may have been sitting on the Formica tabletops a few days too long, but they are usually wiped clean by the babies and toddlers who suck on them like bottles, whose parents are usually outside having a smoke while they are doing it.
When the time is right and you want to take the next step in the Highlands food experience and order that pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich, I need to warn you about something. For God’s sake, don’t just order a pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwich! If you enjoy being either laughed at or sneered at for the remainder of your stay, please order it like I’m about to tell you to. You must say, “Can I get a pork roll, egg, and cheese on a hard roll. Saltpepperketchup!” Trust me on this one.
You may decide to eat your sandwich at Huddy Park, which is across the street from The Parrot. It is nice and all, but you could go down to the beach by the Community Center to have a little beach picnic. The tables outside of The Parrot work just as well too, but the true experience comes when some sand flies into your sandwich as you’re eating it and you end up with sand-sandwich. Heck, you’ll eat it anyway. And, you will love it.
The Parrot:
71 Waterwitch Ave.
Highlands, NJ 07732
732-872-6600
See also:
Sandy Hook
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Essay/Treatise/Load o' Bull?
Chicken looks like people. Go ahead and look at your elbow. Notice how there are tiny bumps? Do some of those bumps maybe have microscopic hairs coming out of them that you can just barely see? Now, take that chicken out of the fridge and start getting it ready for dinner. Put it in the pan and take a look at it. Do you see the tiny bumps? If the chicken was not plucked perfectly, and you take a good look, do some of those bumps maybe have microscopic hairs/feathers coming out of them that you can barely see? It is the way of the raw, plucked chicken.
Other meats are fine because they don’t make me feel like I’m eating myself, or a version of myself. I think meat, lamb, pork, and fish all look like what they are – animals. Yes, pork is white also (and much more closely related to humans than chickens, but that is beside the point) but it does not look like my elbow.
There are certain other foods that I don’t like, but am willing to try them. Tripe, liver, raw bivalves, and some brains and eyeballs are, for the time being, still off the table. I grew up in a clam-digging town and love fried clams, baked clams, clam chowder, and other clam foods. However, steamers and bivalves on a half-shell look like boogers. Why would anyone want to eat a booger? On purpose? With hot sauce? On a date, as an aphrodisiac?
My mother had to raise 5 kids alone. There was rarely enough food. Baked chicken was one of the most common Sunday dinner meals I remember. And I hated it. My mom would bake the chicken in a paper bag - the kind you get at the grocery store that, earlier in the day, had dirty, dented cans of generic corn and peas in it. I almost thank God for my OCDs because I thought it was gross then. I suppose I'm all the stronger for it (i.e. the germs and increased immunity), but I still can't see why anyone would think it was OK to cook a whole stupid chicken in a dirty grocery store brown paper bag.
Other than the roast chicken, Sunday dinners consisted of lasagna (yum), spaghetti with gravy (which ended up on the table full of breadcrumbs because everyone would dip bread in it all day while it was cooking), ham (which turned into pea soup by the following weekend), or smothered steak. There was usually enough for everyone. We obviously didn’t starve. Having the big Sunday meal was the one time we were guaranteed a full meal (other than holidays, but that is true for most people, I believe).
I don't completely dislike everything about baked chicken. I like me some dark meat, as long as it is super-duper moist almost to the point of being wet. I also love, LOVE, the oysters. As much as I learn about the anatomy of a chicken, I still refer to them as the ass of the chicken. I'll explain. See, you got your chicken lying boobs-up in a pan baking. After it is done baking, you need to let it cool, but after it cools, flip that chick over. Along the spine (along what is probably the lower back and not the ass) are two nuggets of meat sitting in oyster-shaped cavities, lightly covered with skin that has kept those succulent chunks of other white meat juiced for the hours that bird has been in the oven. Don't even try to use a spoon or fork or knife or anything but your hands to scoop those oysters out. You need to get your fingers greasy and you really need to dig inside of those cavities to get every last morsel out. Those are the oysters, or, ersters.
Every other part of the chicken is yours 'cuz I don't want it. Besides, my three older brothers, my sister, my mom and whoever else happened to be at dinner that Sunday was bound to want a piece of chicken and I was bound to gladly give them whatever they wanted - but God help the person who tries to deprive me of my oysters. People in my family have been hit in the head with lead pipes, attacked by swarms of bees, stabbed in the leg with a fork, gotten pencils stuck up their nose, been thrown into the tub, have had their beds set on fire, have stepped on light bulbs, have been in countless car crashes, have had multiple knee surgeries, have gotten hit by cars, and have had who-knows-what-else happen to them, so don't take my oysters.
And here’s another gross thing about chicken. Am I the only one who sees the fat that coagulates after a couple of days in the refrigerator? How is that not nauseating to people who just flick it off and munch on that leftover chicken? One of my punishments (it may not have been a real punishment, but a perceived one) was to clean the carcass off after a few days to get every last scrap of meat off of the chicken skeleton. I remember the alley cats being my best friend during those times.
I should add that my mom was always good about cooking the gizzards with the chicken and letting me feed them to the alley cats. Spike, my first alley cat, would never wait for the gizzards to cool off. He would start chowing down the second I put the food down. He would mumble while chewing and it would sound something like, "Mrwoeaonfn Mewoornfggg!" Translated, that means, "Hot Hot Hot!" It wouldn't stop him. But I have stopped myself from eating baked chicken when at all possible.
I don’t completely hate roast chicken in another way too. Those Sunday dinners were the only time that my family was together. My grandparents were alive and I was able to get my grandpa’s rice pudding. Even if my childhood and my family were not perfect, there are good memories, even if they involve a baked chicken.
Other meats are fine because they don’t make me feel like I’m eating myself, or a version of myself. I think meat, lamb, pork, and fish all look like what they are – animals. Yes, pork is white also (and much more closely related to humans than chickens, but that is beside the point) but it does not look like my elbow.
There are certain other foods that I don’t like, but am willing to try them. Tripe, liver, raw bivalves, and some brains and eyeballs are, for the time being, still off the table. I grew up in a clam-digging town and love fried clams, baked clams, clam chowder, and other clam foods. However, steamers and bivalves on a half-shell look like boogers. Why would anyone want to eat a booger? On purpose? With hot sauce? On a date, as an aphrodisiac?
My mother had to raise 5 kids alone. There was rarely enough food. Baked chicken was one of the most common Sunday dinner meals I remember. And I hated it. My mom would bake the chicken in a paper bag - the kind you get at the grocery store that, earlier in the day, had dirty, dented cans of generic corn and peas in it. I almost thank God for my OCDs because I thought it was gross then. I suppose I'm all the stronger for it (i.e. the germs and increased immunity), but I still can't see why anyone would think it was OK to cook a whole stupid chicken in a dirty grocery store brown paper bag.
Other than the roast chicken, Sunday dinners consisted of lasagna (yum), spaghetti with gravy (which ended up on the table full of breadcrumbs because everyone would dip bread in it all day while it was cooking), ham (which turned into pea soup by the following weekend), or smothered steak. There was usually enough for everyone. We obviously didn’t starve. Having the big Sunday meal was the one time we were guaranteed a full meal (other than holidays, but that is true for most people, I believe).
I don't completely dislike everything about baked chicken. I like me some dark meat, as long as it is super-duper moist almost to the point of being wet. I also love, LOVE, the oysters. As much as I learn about the anatomy of a chicken, I still refer to them as the ass of the chicken. I'll explain. See, you got your chicken lying boobs-up in a pan baking. After it is done baking, you need to let it cool, but after it cools, flip that chick over. Along the spine (along what is probably the lower back and not the ass) are two nuggets of meat sitting in oyster-shaped cavities, lightly covered with skin that has kept those succulent chunks of other white meat juiced for the hours that bird has been in the oven. Don't even try to use a spoon or fork or knife or anything but your hands to scoop those oysters out. You need to get your fingers greasy and you really need to dig inside of those cavities to get every last morsel out. Those are the oysters, or, ersters.
Every other part of the chicken is yours 'cuz I don't want it. Besides, my three older brothers, my sister, my mom and whoever else happened to be at dinner that Sunday was bound to want a piece of chicken and I was bound to gladly give them whatever they wanted - but God help the person who tries to deprive me of my oysters. People in my family have been hit in the head with lead pipes, attacked by swarms of bees, stabbed in the leg with a fork, gotten pencils stuck up their nose, been thrown into the tub, have had their beds set on fire, have stepped on light bulbs, have been in countless car crashes, have had multiple knee surgeries, have gotten hit by cars, and have had who-knows-what-else happen to them, so don't take my oysters.
And here’s another gross thing about chicken. Am I the only one who sees the fat that coagulates after a couple of days in the refrigerator? How is that not nauseating to people who just flick it off and munch on that leftover chicken? One of my punishments (it may not have been a real punishment, but a perceived one) was to clean the carcass off after a few days to get every last scrap of meat off of the chicken skeleton. I remember the alley cats being my best friend during those times.
I should add that my mom was always good about cooking the gizzards with the chicken and letting me feed them to the alley cats. Spike, my first alley cat, would never wait for the gizzards to cool off. He would start chowing down the second I put the food down. He would mumble while chewing and it would sound something like, "Mrwoeaonfn Mewoornfggg!" Translated, that means, "Hot Hot Hot!" It wouldn't stop him. But I have stopped myself from eating baked chicken when at all possible.
I don’t completely hate roast chicken in another way too. Those Sunday dinners were the only time that my family was together. My grandparents were alive and I was able to get my grandpa’s rice pudding. Even if my childhood and my family were not perfect, there are good memories, even if they involve a baked chicken.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Adventures in Baking
The title of this post has probably been over-used a million times - but I think it is fitting, so suck my toe, which is still green from St. Patrick's Day.
I am making some cakes today. Cakes, as in more than one. See, this friend of mine up and got herself married to this dude a few states over and they all, like, fell in love and crap. So some friends of hers are throwing a Congratulations on You's Guys' Freakin' Wedding and Shite party. I'm making the wedding cake. I'm only calling it a wedding cake because the event is to celebrate a wedding, but there wasn't the traditional wedding as some people like to think of it and I am not setting out to confuse anyone.
Anywho, my friend eats everything under the sun, which is cool. Her new boo is a vegan. Before you decide to stop reading further, hear me out, especially since I'm going to put some recipes right here in this here post and tell you where I got them so you can decide for yourself how bad they may come out. I don't begrudge people their dietary choices. The point I get pissed off at is when they act all highfalutin and push their morals on me or pretend to gag if I'm eating a bloody burger. It's also those people who can't live in the same house with meat or have meat-cooked within a 5-block radius of them that really get my goat. I like goat, by the way. Some nice curried goat with a side of dirty rice is fine by me. Hot dog! I didn't even get to the recipes yet.
So I found a recipe for vegan chocolate cake on Instructables. It sounds pretty easy and I think I can make it tasty. I found a vegan frosting recipe on Chow that I'm just going to add some chocolate to, maybe. I like that it sounds fluffy. I can't imagine how fluffy shortening and powdered sugar can actually get, but I'll beat it 'til it creams. (Get your jollies out now.)
The Real-People Chocolate Cake and frosting recipes I got elsewhere but they seem pretty standard, so those will be OK.
I would like to add a note, or sidebar, or something here stating that I am adding a little sumfin' sumfin' extra to the filling of these two cakes to make it not so plain-chocolatey. Yes, I'm speaking of wasabi. There won't be a lot of wasabi in the filling - just a smidge. I want there to be a bite of something in there to get people innerested. That might change, however if I see a shiny can of some fruit in the store and I add that to the filling instead. Only time will tell . . .
I am making some cakes today. Cakes, as in more than one. See, this friend of mine up and got herself married to this dude a few states over and they all, like, fell in love and crap. So some friends of hers are throwing a Congratulations on You's Guys' Freakin' Wedding and Shite party. I'm making the wedding cake. I'm only calling it a wedding cake because the event is to celebrate a wedding, but there wasn't the traditional wedding as some people like to think of it and I am not setting out to confuse anyone.
Anywho, my friend eats everything under the sun, which is cool. Her new boo is a vegan. Before you decide to stop reading further, hear me out, especially since I'm going to put some recipes right here in this here post and tell you where I got them so you can decide for yourself how bad they may come out. I don't begrudge people their dietary choices. The point I get pissed off at is when they act all highfalutin and push their morals on me or pretend to gag if I'm eating a bloody burger. It's also those people who can't live in the same house with meat or have meat-cooked within a 5-block radius of them that really get my goat. I like goat, by the way. Some nice curried goat with a side of dirty rice is fine by me. Hot dog! I didn't even get to the recipes yet.
So I found a recipe for vegan chocolate cake on Instructables. It sounds pretty easy and I think I can make it tasty. I found a vegan frosting recipe on Chow that I'm just going to add some chocolate to, maybe. I like that it sounds fluffy. I can't imagine how fluffy shortening and powdered sugar can actually get, but I'll beat it 'til it creams. (Get your jollies out now.)
The Real-People Chocolate Cake and frosting recipes I got elsewhere but they seem pretty standard, so those will be OK.
I would like to add a note, or sidebar, or something here stating that I am adding a little sumfin' sumfin' extra to the filling of these two cakes to make it not so plain-chocolatey. Yes, I'm speaking of wasabi. There won't be a lot of wasabi in the filling - just a smidge. I want there to be a bite of something in there to get people innerested. That might change, however if I see a shiny can of some fruit in the store and I add that to the filling instead. Only time will tell . . .
Friday, March 19, 2010
All the World's A Stage (but today it's a short stage)
This is a food fight I'm interested in watching - and maybe getting involved in! (It involves Hugh Grant. I'm not terribly interested in him, but I think he'd be fun to get into a food fight with.)
Pensacola store charged with exchanging food stamps for cold, hard cash.
Are we experiencing Food Classism? (Yeah, this isn't new . . .)
NYPL's new Battery Park City Library is the system's first green LEED certified branch in Manhattan!
Pensacola store charged with exchanging food stamps for cold, hard cash.
Are we experiencing Food Classism? (Yeah, this isn't new . . .)
NYPL's new Battery Park City Library is the system's first green LEED certified branch in Manhattan!
Friday, February 19, 2010
Peoples is Peoples
The French National Library acquires Casanova's papers. More here.
To try:
Maple whiskey by Cabin Fever
Rocky Mountain Blackberry Whiskey by Leopold Brother (Denver)
Phnom Penh whisky business is booming.
Profile of (fairly) new Master Distiller at Jack Daniel's, Jeff Arnett.
One of three £10,000 bottles of Glenfiddich 50-year old will be auctioned off at Harrods', one of the lucky recipients of the rare whisky. The proceeds are to benefit the Evelina Children's Hospital.
The Côte d'Ivoire and cocoa remain in unrest.
To try:
Maple whiskey by Cabin Fever
Rocky Mountain Blackberry Whiskey by Leopold Brother (Denver)
Phnom Penh whisky business is booming.
Profile of (fairly) new Master Distiller at Jack Daniel's, Jeff Arnett.
One of three £10,000 bottles of Glenfiddich 50-year old will be auctioned off at Harrods', one of the lucky recipients of the rare whisky. The proceeds are to benefit the Evelina Children's Hospital.
The Côte d'Ivoire and cocoa remain in unrest.
Friday, February 12, 2010
I miss Abraham Lincoln's Birthday
In honor of President's Day, I'm posting links that have practically nothing to do with each other. If you've seen Holiday Inn (You haven't? Well, check it out!) you know that Abraham Lincoln's birthday used to be a big deal, as well as some other president's. There is something else going on this weekend, but I choose to ignore it.
Valentine's Day is banned in Saudi Arabia. Now, the holiday means something because Valentine's Day merchandise is considered contraband. That's actually kind of a turn on. It's illicit!
Abso-freakin-lutely lovely Valentine's Day ephemera are being exhibited at the University of Oxford's Bodleian Library.
OK, those two are related, but that was an accident.
A story in the Guardian recounts a die-hard feminist's experience at a nyotaimori dinner taking place in London. For those of you not in the know, nyotaimori is body sushi. A group of diners eat sushi off of the body of a naked woman.
Library Journal names Glen Carbon Library the best small library in the nation. YAY!
I love just about everything in this article: the top picture of two cats on a counter, surrounded by books; the fact that a used book store is in a barn; and the fact that they are old books. Did I mention the picture with the cats? Now I have to go to Baldwin's Book Barn!
Thieves net £250,000 whisky haul
Uig to produce first legal dram for 170 years
I would love to have whisky toothpaste available now, but alas, it is not to be.
(512) Brewing created a delicious-sounding beer called Whiskey Barrel Aged Double Pecan Porter, which has officially been added to my list of must-try's.
Valentine's Day is banned in Saudi Arabia. Now, the holiday means something because Valentine's Day merchandise is considered contraband. That's actually kind of a turn on. It's illicit!
Abso-freakin-lutely lovely Valentine's Day ephemera are being exhibited at the University of Oxford's Bodleian Library.
OK, those two are related, but that was an accident.
A story in the Guardian recounts a die-hard feminist's experience at a nyotaimori dinner taking place in London. For those of you not in the know, nyotaimori is body sushi. A group of diners eat sushi off of the body of a naked woman.
Library Journal names Glen Carbon Library the best small library in the nation. YAY!
I love just about everything in this article: the top picture of two cats on a counter, surrounded by books; the fact that a used book store is in a barn; and the fact that they are old books. Did I mention the picture with the cats? Now I have to go to Baldwin's Book Barn!
Thieves net £250,000 whisky haul
Uig to produce first legal dram for 170 years
I would love to have whisky toothpaste available now, but alas, it is not to be.
(512) Brewing created a delicious-sounding beer called Whiskey Barrel Aged Double Pecan Porter, which has officially been added to my list of must-try's.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Beerfly Pie
This hearty and savory pie is so easy to make, you can whip it up even through the tears of a bad breakup. The ingredients can be interchanged and substituted, depending on your cupboard and state of mind. However, it is essential to have the proper frame of mind - that of longing for the hours of your life lost drinking at bars.
Crust
2 cups flour
1 stick butter, or 8 tbs. spread
ice water as needed to bind
Filling
1 cup sugar
1/8 cup cigarette ash (Camel is the preferred hipster choice, but Marlboro Reds should suffice; steer clear of cloves as they are a tad elitist)
1/4 cup water
pinch cinnamon
1/2 cup bourbon (plus one cup for you while preparing)
1 tsp. bitters (yours or store-bought)
1/2 cup finely chopped questionable sausage
1/2 cup finely chopped, cooked barley
1 apple, peeled, cored, and finely chopped
1/2 cup grated stinky cheese (the stinkier, the better, just like those empty promises he made)
Make crust as usual, duh!
In saucepan, stir sugar, ash and water over low heat until sugar is dissolved and you can't breathe.
In separate bowl, mix cinnamon, bourbon, bitters, sausage, barley, and apple. Set aside to get rank, like the feeling you get when you think of THEM reuniting.
Pour the sugar mixture over the sausage mixture and incorporate well - at least until you feel nauseous, if not more - just like that relationship you knew you had to end months ago.
You can now put the sausage mix into the crust, making sure to leave splashes of mess over the side because nothing is neat about a beerfly pie.
Sprinkle with the stinky cheese and bake in a preheated 375 degree oven for about 30-40 minutes, or until the neighbors complain.
Remove from oven and cool completely. Like relationships formed at a bar, it should be lukewarm.
Slice the pie and serve with regret, but preferably with self-loathing. Enjoy!
Crust
2 cups flour
1 stick butter, or 8 tbs. spread
ice water as needed to bind
Filling
1 cup sugar
1/8 cup cigarette ash (Camel is the preferred hipster choice, but Marlboro Reds should suffice; steer clear of cloves as they are a tad elitist)
1/4 cup water
pinch cinnamon
1/2 cup bourbon (plus one cup for you while preparing)
1 tsp. bitters (yours or store-bought)
1/2 cup finely chopped questionable sausage
1/2 cup finely chopped, cooked barley
1 apple, peeled, cored, and finely chopped
1/2 cup grated stinky cheese (the stinkier, the better, just like those empty promises he made)
Make crust as usual, duh!
In saucepan, stir sugar, ash and water over low heat until sugar is dissolved and you can't breathe.
In separate bowl, mix cinnamon, bourbon, bitters, sausage, barley, and apple. Set aside to get rank, like the feeling you get when you think of THEM reuniting.
Pour the sugar mixture over the sausage mixture and incorporate well - at least until you feel nauseous, if not more - just like that relationship you knew you had to end months ago.
You can now put the sausage mix into the crust, making sure to leave splashes of mess over the side because nothing is neat about a beerfly pie.
Sprinkle with the stinky cheese and bake in a preheated 375 degree oven for about 30-40 minutes, or until the neighbors complain.
Remove from oven and cool completely. Like relationships formed at a bar, it should be lukewarm.
Slice the pie and serve with regret, but preferably with self-loathing. Enjoy!
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