What ever happened to head cheese?

In the middle of the river that ran through the small city where I spent my youth stood a building which was used as a slaughterhouse, or packing plant as they are called these days. It was said that such places used everything of a pig but its squeal in their preparation of meat products. Those who ventured ovre the bridge which connected the island to the mainland testified that the stink was also wasted. I used to think that if that smell could be manufactured into some kind of bomb that the war department would have paid well for it.

Every Saturday morning mama would give me a water pail and a quarter ant I would traipse over the bridge to the slaughterhouse. The man behind the counter wearing a bloody apron would fill the pail with whatever "cat food" that was available. The was liver, kidneys, neck bones, spare ribs, pigs feet and every now and then a hog's head.

Getting a hog's head was a real treasure. Mama would take it out into the back yard, scrape and burn the hair off and when it was thoroughly cleaned she'd put it in her big old cast iron kettle and boil it till all the meat fell off the bones. The ears were then cut off and given to the kids as a special treat to be eaten in sandwiches made of thick slices of home made bread topped with slices of raw onions. My mouth still waters when I think of them. The rest of the meat was removed from the skull bone and ground on mama's food chopper and cooked again with its own juices until it was a thick mass. It was then poured into bread pans where it was allowed to cool into a jelly thick sausage. It kept for a long time and was a special treat.

The eyes of the pig were what fascinated me. Mama always used them as an object lesson showing how they were so tough that even a knife couldn't penetrate them. So whenever I got a foreign object in my eye, she'd remind me of how tough the pig's eye was and assure me that her procedure for removing it wasn't going to hurt a bit. Guess I never really believed her as I did a lot of yelling till it was over.

Not long ago, as I was taking some fresh bread out of the oven, I got a hankering for some of that head cheese like mama used to make. I had bought it from time to time over the years at the local meat market and while it couldn't measure up to mama's, it wasn't a bad substitute.

Failing to see anything that looked like head cheese at the meat counter, I rang the attendance bell and a young man appeared.

"Do you have any head cheese?" I asked.

"Any what, sir?" he said, acting as if I was talking in a foreign language.

"Head cheese," I repeated.

"Never heard of it, sir," he replied. "We have a good selection of meat. I'm sure you can find something else to your liking. If you'll excuse me I have a lot of work to do in the back."

"Can't imagine them not having anything as good as head cheese," I muttered to myself. Maybe some pickled baloney would taste good," and I began looking for the big glass jars that pickled baloney was packed in but couldn't find that either. Disgusted and mumbling something about how nothing is like it used to be, I went home and brought out a package of frozen chop suey from the freezer. It came in two packs, one of which was the meat, which I put in the microwave for two minutes and then I added the rice and microed another four minutes. I was then directed to cut the two bags open and mix the contents and it tasted like the two plastic bags. On the box it said, "No cholesterol or salt." They should also have added, "No taste."

That evening, my hankering still not satisfied, I decided to pop some pop corn in the microwave. After the designated time, I removed the popped corn and attempted to open the bag. I had read not too long ago how rhinos were becoming an endangered species and now I know why. I'm sure they used their hides to package pop corn, corn flakes and all the other items that are impossible to open.

That night I lay in bed, thinking about all the good things we used to have to eat that aren't available anymore, so I turned on my bedside lamp, picked up a pencil and started listing them. Let's see, there was head cheese, blood sausage, souce, lights and liver chittlings and, oh yes, fried indian pudding came to mind.

The next time I went to town I went to another meat market. When I rang the bell a nice little girl came forward and asked, "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes, miss. Can you tell me where I can find these items?" I handed her my list.

She read it over and looked puzzled. Apparently thinking that I was playing some kind of joke on her she continued, "Hum, head cheese, blood sausage, oh, I see," she smiled, "you're some kind of a cannibal. You're in the wrong establishment. You should buy your meat at the undertakers."

"Young lady, this is no joke," I assured her. "I am asking for common everyday foods that everyone eats. What kind of a meat market is this, anyway?"

"Are you with anyone?" the young lady then asked.

Just then the young lady who had been my driver appeared. "Well, pop, ready to go home?" she said.

"Is he with you?" asked the butcher lady.

"Yes," replied my lady. "I bring him shopping."

"Oh, good," said the butcher lady. "I think someone should take care of him."

"What's he done?" questioned my driver.

"He's acting rather strangely. Mumbling something about head cheese and blood sausage. I don't think he should be left to go around alone."

"He's just as sane as you and I, young lady. Head cheese and blood sausage were popular foods in his day."

As we headed for the checkout counter, I asked my driver, "Do you suppose they still make corn meal?"

"Of course," she laughed, "I'll help you find it." She handed me a round box and when I looked at the picture on it, I said, "This is oatmeal."

"Oh, you mean the picture. The same people that make oatmeal make the corn meal too."

"Huh," I snorted. "I'll bet that tastes good. Whatever became of good old Pawneer Meal?"

When I got home I looked up directions for cooking Indian pudding but couldn't find any. The package directions assured me that their recipe was for making Johnny Cake the old-fashioned way, which I proceeded to follow.

After tucking it safely in the oven I sat down to rest. I must have dozed off for the next thing I knew some one was dragging me outdoors into the fresh air and as I opened my eyes there was a fireman with a silly looking thing covering his face bending over me.

"Hey buddy," he said, "What were you trying to do?"

"Why, I was trying to make some Indian pudding," I choked.

"Huh," said the fireman. "Must have been one hot Indian."

Well, after the fireman had cleared all the smoke out of the apartment, and all my neighbors had trailed in and out to see what all the commotion was about with a few of them commenting that old duffers like me shouldn't live alone, I laid down and resumed my nap.

The next morning I answered a knock on my door and there stood Marinlee, a nice sensible neighbor of 83. She handed me a bread pan and said, I made you some Indian pudding. Just cut it in slices and fry.

Now there is a girl old enough to have sense. We had a nice little talk and I found that she knew what head cheese and blood sausage was.