There are some things I missed spending my formative years in the Appalachian mountains in New Jersey. And, yes – there are ‘mountains’ in NJ, even ski areas. The particular one we lived on top of, which all those years ago was pretty isolated, had been tapped at about 1200′ in height or so by the altimeter in my Daddy’s Eastern Airlines Electra when he rumbled over the homestead one day on his way back to Newark with an empty plane.
Sussex County at the time was rural with a capital ‘R’ and not known for any regional culinary specialty, less mind any dining chain establishment of any description. The closest we came to meeting the NJ mold was an affection for Taylor pork roll (ROLL – it says so on the label, dammit) and…well, a pizza parlor opened by Italian refugees from closer to the city who’d needed to establish some distance from, let’s just say, a ‘family’ feud.
All those…
