I was enjoying a bowl of tepid tomato soup (that was in dire need of flavor) and a hearty biscuit (with that Bisquick aftertaste) at a small diner in Philadelphia when I came across a wealth of blog material printed on small cards for patrons to read at their leisure.
The first bit was a comment on "bacon", the staple food of any good diner: "Bacon is not a euphemism for money; rather, the phrase has its roots in 12th century England. A church in the town of Dunmow promised a side of bacon to any married man who could swear before the congregation and God that he had not quarreled with his wife for a year and a day."
Wow! Bacon must have been quite a commodity in those times! Now you can get a side of bacon at IHOP for a lot less than a vow of peace with your partner (although it might result in a war in the bathroom). And what's with that year and a day? Lord … a man who brings home the bacon in Dunmow does more than just bread-winning and promising harmony; he's probably a lying pig.
The next item for my reading pleasure was a discussion on "scrapple", a popular concoction of vomit and intestines that is ravished by northeasterners and gutter rats alike. "Scrapple: The Pennsylvania Dutch call it Panhas, southerners call it Poor-do, and in Maryland, Virginia, and North Carolina it's called Liver-mush. Scrapple is a medieval word for leftovers mixed up with the German word Panhaskreppel and the Netherlands Dutch word Schrapelkoekeje."
So not only is scrapple itself a mush of shit and gravy, but so are its semantic origins.
Scrapple wrappers in the grocery store are at least honest about the contents of this scrapple-diddle-ee-umptious delight (usually pig brain, whale carcass, sheep toe-jam), but this Philly diner challenged the commercialized version of scrapple to provide a more wholesome, healthier alternative: cornmeal, buckwheat flour, seasonings and meat broth cooked until thickened, sliced thin and fried until brown, good with ketchup or syrup. Now that doesn't sound too bad.
I paid my $4.50, wished I had spent it elsewhere, gathered my belongs, and finally gave into the desire to buy a local "Eat more scrapple" shirt at the register. I'm a schmuck from Delaware, what can I say? Table scraps are part of my blood.
(for a complete list of diner-ese phrase-ology, visit http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A890589)
Monday, February 19, 2007
Thursday, February 15, 2007
The Greyhound Experience
This semester I have the unique privilege of traveling back and forth from DC and Philadelphia via America's most prized form of public transportation: the Greyhound Bus (or the Peter Pan Bus… coincidentally, I am currently working on a blog that compares a man's inability to form emotional attachments with others to the story of Peter, watch this space!).
There are a few pointers that I can dish out to any of you who are brave enough to ride a contraption that bears the name of an animal that is often shot to death when past its prime (which, strangely, all of the passengers have reached). Lucky the drivers of the Greyhound busses are not put up to the same standards of actual race dogs; just in case, the driver is nonetheless seated in a bulletproof enclosure.
If you buy your tickets on the internet you can "skip" the hassle of waiting in the speedy (like molasses) line of customers by circumventing them at the electronic "Will Call" booth (and, no joke: there is an actual red carpet leading up to the booth). There is a modest $4 fee for this service, and for the man who has to clean the red carpet. Sadly, it is a four dollars better spent elsewhere, as these booths are always broken and you end up waiting in the regular line besides- and, with no carpet (oooohhhh!!!).
Do not consume any liquids an entire 3 hours before your Greyhound ride; you will regret it if you do. Going to the bathroom on a bus is about as pleasant as riding home completely drunk and sick in the back of a cab driven by a blind person.
One highly disturbing aspect of the Greyhound voyage is their list of prohibited items; a list that would suggest that these items have been carried on board in the past and have been met with displeasure from other passengers.
They include: ammunition, combustible liquids, fireworks, hazardous materials, and other reasonable limitations. However, there is also mention of cremated remains, materials with a disagreeable odor (however no mention of humans with a disagreeable odor), and my favorite- corpses. Yes friends, you heard it here first: please do not check any baggage containing corpses on the Greyhound.
Naturally I am respectful of these baggage restrictions, yet while riding the doggy-style bus I have to wonder—man, some of these people aren't moving and may have actually become corpses in transit (chuck 'em at the next stop?), and "disagreeable odor" is the understatement of the year when you get a whiff of that damned onboard bathroom.
There are a few pointers that I can dish out to any of you who are brave enough to ride a contraption that bears the name of an animal that is often shot to death when past its prime (which, strangely, all of the passengers have reached). Lucky the drivers of the Greyhound busses are not put up to the same standards of actual race dogs; just in case, the driver is nonetheless seated in a bulletproof enclosure.
If you buy your tickets on the internet you can "skip" the hassle of waiting in the speedy (like molasses) line of customers by circumventing them at the electronic "Will Call" booth (and, no joke: there is an actual red carpet leading up to the booth). There is a modest $4 fee for this service, and for the man who has to clean the red carpet. Sadly, it is a four dollars better spent elsewhere, as these booths are always broken and you end up waiting in the regular line besides- and, with no carpet (oooohhhh!!!).
Do not consume any liquids an entire 3 hours before your Greyhound ride; you will regret it if you do. Going to the bathroom on a bus is about as pleasant as riding home completely drunk and sick in the back of a cab driven by a blind person.
One highly disturbing aspect of the Greyhound voyage is their list of prohibited items; a list that would suggest that these items have been carried on board in the past and have been met with displeasure from other passengers.
They include: ammunition, combustible liquids, fireworks, hazardous materials, and other reasonable limitations. However, there is also mention of cremated remains, materials with a disagreeable odor (however no mention of humans with a disagreeable odor), and my favorite- corpses. Yes friends, you heard it here first: please do not check any baggage containing corpses on the Greyhound.
Naturally I am respectful of these baggage restrictions, yet while riding the doggy-style bus I have to wonder—man, some of these people aren't moving and may have actually become corpses in transit (chuck 'em at the next stop?), and "disagreeable odor" is the understatement of the year when you get a whiff of that damned onboard bathroom.
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