Feelin’ Scrappie

Been on a bit of a scrapple jag, lately.

The fountain of scrapple spouts in PA, so over the weekend we drove north. We crested trim peaks fast enough to make our stomaches drop, winding along leafy, but nearly picked clean orchards.

Destination: Carlisle → Downtown → Fay’s → Scrapple

A Lunch Encounterer’s hours.

We are so hap, hap, happy that Kelly, Teen and Phoeboe have settled in Pennsylvania, close enough to drive up for lunch. Kelly doesn’t eat meat, but…

…her brave son accepted a bite of scrapple and smiled through it. Turns out that chap eats brussel sprouts and beets, “if they are roasted.” Quite refined, he is. That’s what a childhood in London will do for ya, lucky devil.

Kelly’s friend Steve’s grandmother (got that?) used to say “Buckwheat cakes with loads of butter make your lips go flitter flutter.”

Blue bucks, dead center. Ringed by eggs and a helluva lotta toast. A tad early for scrapple sandwiches, I settled for a side. Alone and flat, the scrapple sat, no wiggle, no jiggle, no sizzle. What it lacks in animation scrapple makes up for in taste, that livery taste that is a force with which to reckon, particularly before noon.

Toast or Scrapple…er….Scrapple or Toast

It WAS!!

The way we were as H. E. Doubletoothpicks, the band with a “big bottom”, two bassists. Kelly still brings it like nobody’s business!