We have a tradition at the Hamilton Post whenever a new hire starts here. The new person must share, in front of the rest of the employees, a few things about themselves.
Usually, people choose to share standard information—their favorite sports teams, the books they’re reading now. But when a new person joined the staff last month, she took a different approach.
“I have a pink violin I can’t really play,” she said. “And I will fight anyone who calls pork roll ‘Taylor ham.’”
Heads nodded in approval, around the room.
There’s a maxim that says the way to people’s hearts is through their stomachs, and it seems pork roll has solidified a permanent place in the hearts—and guts—of those in the Trenton region. As I considered what to write for this month’s column, I received two emails and one visit at my desk regarding pork roll. It was then I wondered, “What is it about pork roll that gets our blood pressure up?” Aside, of course, from the 16 grams total fat, 7 grams saturated fat and 580 milligrams of sodium a 2-ounce serving of the stuff will give you.
Anyone who has lived in central New Jersey for an extended period of time knows pork roll is part of the culture here. In Mercer County, you can have pork roll with eggs, pork roll on a bagel, pork roll on a burger or pork roll on a pizza. You can eat pork roll plain. You can eat pork roll for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and if some genius successfully pairs pork roll with chocolate, you can have pork roll for dessert, too. If it works for bacon, why not pork roll?
Until this winter, I never appreciated fully how much of a staple pork roll is in Mercer County. It’s right up there with bread, milk and eggs. Before one February snow storm, manic shoppers nearly cleared ShopRite out of its pork roll supply. Should you have desired a package of Taylor or Case, you would have had to step into the refrigerated case, reach to the back wall of the top shelf and swipe blindly. With luck, you might have snagged a stray box.
It opened my eyes to the fact we live in the center of the Pork Roll Universe. All of a sudden, pork roll was everywhere. I realized the producers of the stuff—such as Case, Loeffler’s and Taylor—still operate in the Trenton area. I remembered there’s a business named “the Pork Roll Store” on the Allentown-Hamilton border. Press releases for a May 24 event at city watering hole Trenton Social—the 2014 Pork Roll Festival—practically leapt out of my computer screen to nab my attention. A half day of pork roll-related food and entertainment! A rumored Miss Pork Roll contest!
Even the pages of this very paper got in on the act. The March edition of the Hamilton Post featured a story by Samantha Sciarrotta about Nottingham High School teacher/coach Jason Marasco, and his catering business. The NFL hired Marasco to cater one of its events on the day of the Super Bowl. What did Marasco use in one dish to capture the essence of New Jersey? Pork roll, naturally.
Online magazine Slate found out the hard way how serious we are about pork roll. After it dubbed capicola New Jersey’s state meat in a March 10 feature called “the United Steaks of America,” Slate received feedback from the Garden State instantly.
“NJ forever shall be pork roll. We argue Taylor Ham vs pork roll. It’s as Jersey as Bruce,” Twitter user Jorge C. Santos said, in one of the more reasoned responses.
And Santos is right. We do argue about it. Of all the issues in the world to discuss, people in New Jersey like to debate meat product nomenclature. We fought with our college girlfriends from North Jersey about it. We take pride that our Union County-native parents have converted to saying “pork roll.” We write 850-word columns about it for the local newspaper, based on one comment from a new staff member. In Pork Roll Country, it’s all within the standards of acceptability.
Here, pork roll is more than the sum of its parts—which extremely helpful online searches revealed include “pork.” At times, it can be hard to remember that pork roll and its mysterious makeup aren’t universally understood everywhere.
One time, as an undergraduate at Syracuse University, I tried explaining pork roll to a friend not from New Jersey.
“What’s this ‘pork roll’ everyone talks about?” he asked.
“Pork roll is delicious,” I said.
“Yeah, but what is pork roll?” he pressed, desiring more of a description.
I gathered the most serious look I could.
“Delicious,” I asserted. “It is delicious.”
He got my drift. Then, several years later, he visited New Jersey. He tried pork roll. He never questioned it again.
Now, whenever he visits, he’ll ask, “Do you have any pork roll?”
As if that’s even a question.
