Despite living for most of my adult life in and around Philadelphia, I somehow managed to avoid direct personal contact with scrapple, a food that, like the cheesesteak and soft pretzel, is strongly associated with the region. (Right now I feel I ought to advise you that you may want to think twice about clicking that scrapple link. Like sausage, law and perhaps also reality television, some feel it best to remain ignorant of scrapple's makings.) It's not that I had what you'd call a strong position on scrapple, just it always seemed like the kind of thing that I was probably better off avoiding if possible. Which it was.

But earlier this year we invested in a stand-alone freezer and accessorized it with shares in both a steer and a pig. The pig arrived with several packs of organic, hormone-free, free-range scrapple. Brainiac and I both felt tested by its presence at our house and resolved that it would not be wasted. Yesterday morning we acted on our resolve and I sliced and fried (in a well-seasoned cast iron pan) the very first scrapple of my life.

No one could be more surprised than I to discover that scrapple is actually quite good. Properly prepared, scrapple has a texture somewhat akin to polenta* - browned and crispy on the outside, meltingly tender on the inside. It is earthy, meaty and very, very rich - as befits a dish made with bits of the pig that I ordinarily pass with only so much as a shudder. I couldn't eat more than two small slices, but Brainiac and the Boy Wonder both managed to pack away more.

I'm chalking this up to a growth experience. While I am no longer afraid of scrapple and will certainly enjoy the remainder currently in my possession I can't imagine a time when I'll seek it out. Still, I am pleased to be in the scrapple-eating side in a world that is highly unevenly divided between Those Who Will and Those Who Won't. I am a girl who will.

* One of the ingredients in scrapple is cornmeal, which serves as a kind of mortor for all the bits and pieces of other stuff. When I described the texture of scrapple as polenta-like I had a giggle, because in my grocery I can buy "polenta" for something north of $3.00 a pound whereas cornmeal mush - the exact same thing, but for being a slightly finer grind - is more like $1.50.

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A couple years ago, Kodak ran what I consider to be a brilliant advertisement. A group of children walk in what looked to be a museum with stark white walls. On the walls are scores of photographs, some of them iconic images for Americas - the first flight at Kitty Hawk, Muhammad Ali with his arm raised in victory, 1980's Miracle on Ice, Martin Luther King, Jr. standing before an uncountable crowd. Others are more mundane - baby in a sunhat, a bride and groom in wedding finery, a couple hugging and mugging for the camera. The docent asks the children if they can hear what the photographs are saying. "They're saying Keep me," he tells them, "Share me, protect me...and I will live forever." Nearby, a man stares in teary reverence at a decades-old picture of a young woman in a blue dress.

It was genius, this way of reminding us that even though we now take pictures with our phones and our PDAs and goodness knows what else, that these images still require protection if we value them, if we want these bits of digital ephemera to live on as our boxes of old film-based photographs do...that even though we have moved beyond the box of unlabled and yet still precious pics under the bed, there is much still to keep and share.

I have a file on the computer on which I type this named 0000432Xy7.jpg. It is a picture of Entropy Girl in her first hour of life, nearly three years ago, wrapped in a pink and white plaid blanket and staring directly into her father's face. For all it's importance to me, I clearly have not done enough to act on how this picture makes me feel. There are no back-ups, no duplicates and it has never been printed for display in my home.

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Sometimes I feel like a dinosaur (and not just when the Boy Wonder asks if it's "hard to be [my] age"). I am becoming wary of what each technological advance trumpted as the Next Cool Thing will cost us. When every house on every block has it's own 108-inch television, will we bother to gather together to watch movies when watching one on such a screen is already like being with a crowd (except for the pesky interpersonal interaction part)? Students are no longer expected to learn cursive writing in some school districts, a casualty of our typing and texting age. I think this is sad, and not only because many students actually find cursive easier to learn first than printing, especially visual-learners whose tendancy toward the drawing and art make the flowing lettering more appealing, but also because losing longhand-based literacy cuts people off from entire centuries of human expression.

And, of course, we no longer need to know how to cook. But you know how I feel about that.

I fear that we're not protecting the things we find valuable, let alone sharing them. In our rush to trade up our Lion King VHS tapes to DVD to Blu-ray we're left behind, just more of the masses who will either become irrelevent or clamor to catch up. But we're losing more than the occasional hand-written letter (how will anyone ever right a biography of my life when I've had more than a score of e-mail addresses and the use of goodness knows how many servers? Can you imagine if Thomas Jefferson had access to Blogger?), but we're also losing perspective with the rush to upgrade and add more.

I wonder what my children will think is worth sharing and protecting from their childhood. Will it be a .WAV file of Entropy Girl singing "Feliz Navidad" with the words coming out something more like "May-lease Mah-bee-dah"? Or the songs that we sing together whenever we're in the car? Will anything be able to play such files in 50 or 60 years? (Hint: my dad has a box load of 8-track tapes in his basement, unplayed since I was about nine years old.)

I wonder what meals they'll remember most as they grow. Will it be the pierogie we make together, talking about their Polish great-grandmother and the first time I met her (when she complimented my generous figure as being "good for having babies" - turns out she was right, although I didn't love hearing it at the time). I can't believe that they'll look back and remember the hot dogs, mac-and-cheese or frozen ravioli.
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Or at least I don't want to believe that they will. Yes, I must do a better job of protecting and sharing, not just our photographs, but our history - familial and otherwise. Not doing so is the same as throwing it out with the arrival of the Next Cool Thing.

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	A while back I found myself looking for something to do so that I could not each the remainder of my Christmas ribbon candy. While wandering around the kitchen trying to think of a project my eye fell upon my zester and - a ha! - I knew right away what I would do. I would make the long-anticipated and oft-planned pineapple-lime jam.
Turns out that the jam did not free me from the candy's siren call since it was ridiculously fast and easy - one of those that when it's all over you find yourself staring at the finished jars thinking yourself awesome. Of course, and there's no reason to tell anyone just how easy this is.

I, though, will happily share so that you may allow your friends and relations to believe that you toiled all day in wretched dreariness to bring them such a wonder.

Despite my enthusiasm, I will confess that the jam is not an unqualified success. Most of the recipes I perused did not use pectin, which is fine with me as I am not a fan, and I wonder if there is something inherent in the pineapple as the cause of this ommision. I seem to remember that one is not supposed to use pineapple in gelled desserts, as the gel will not set up properly in the presence of the pineapple. Some enzyme or something.

And indeed, my jam is rather soft (how I like it, but I realize many people prefer something a little more congealed) but I used canned pineapple which is supposedly not subject to the no-gelling rule. (I'm not the only one who sort of conflates gelatin with pectin-based jams and jellies, am I? I don't know that they are, but they seem related to me although this could merely be in my general disdain for the over-gelled.) Texture aside, the taste is wonderful as it is and I'm thinking that it might be ever-so-slightly improved with a touch of cinnamon. I would have tried with a jar or two of this batch but my cinnamon is fairly weak and I have not yet had time to replace it with something better from my shiny new Penzeys and their selection of five different varieties.

To make a reasonable and wholly presentable pineapple jam, empty two 20 oz. cans of crushed pineapple into a large saucepan. Add a cup and a half of granular sugar and a quarter cup of lime juice. Bring to a boil, stirring frequently and reduce heat to that the mixture settles to a simmer. Simmer for 40 minutes, continuing to stir frequently, to allow the mixture to thicken. Pack into sterilized jars and process in a boiling water bath for 15 minutes. Cool overnight, checking that the seal is complete before storing. This recipe will make enough to pack four half-pint jars with a bit leftover to put directly into the fridge.

I think this jam would be lovely on Sally Lund bread or perhaps as a filling or glaze for pound cake (an almond pound cake, perhaps?) Or maybe just on a spoon, with no other adornment.

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