Mozzadrella wanders South...

I went to DC this past weekend to see my pal James get hitched, and thought I’d check out where the fresh mozz gets made below the Mason-Dixon. I departed from out slightly dingy hostel for the only promised land for foodies in the District: Eastern Market.

Eastern Market refers to both the expansive brick building where purveyors hock their wares and the surrounding neighborhood, a sleepy, cozy area near Capitol Hill. Built in 1873 as a city-supported market, it’s protected by the National Registry of Historic Places.

Until April 2007, when fire accosted the structure. Part of the roof caved in.

It’s currently being rebuilt, but in the meantime the city has erected a temporary structure known as the “East Hall” near the original grounds. It retains the lofty space-feel of the place, and serves as host to the same vendors. My favorite is the Bowers Fancy Dairy Products, run by Ray and Tessa Bowers, a Polish family that has been importing cheese to DC since 1964.



This family distributes samples generously and with zest. I sampled a surprisingly tangy goat’s milk gouda (decidedly different from it’s Dutch cow’s milk counterpart) and a gouda/parmesan hybrid with a woodsy flavor. If you stand there for 15 minutes you will be full. And in awe of their massive cheese plains.

In addition to the imported cheeses the Bowers’ also carry domestic, local cheese from nearby Maryland, Pennsylvania and Virginia. Cherry Glen raises award-winning goats in Boyds, Maryland, and features both fresh and aged chèvres (fresh is the more crumbly, tart of the two, aged chèvre takes on a creamier, lava-like texture with a stronger nose). They also manage a goat’s milk ricotta (a whey cheese from cows, sheep, or water buffalo) which makes use of apple cider vinegar to achieve the grainy consistency. The Glen Farm only uses microbial rennet, which is to say it’s vegetarian-safe.

My favorite part, the item that floored me, was the 5lb butter lumps in the display case. They measure 3x3x12. Woof.

Taylor-Made

I don’t know that I have a lot to learn from New Jersey, but she sure wants to teach me.

I’ve been down the shore, weathered the inanity of the jughandle, been called a “Benny,” parsed out the different accents, been thwarted by the blue laws on Sunday, tasted the coffee at Wawa, and toured countless vinyl-coated diners.

I first came to New Jersey three years ago this week. I’m back. She is awful persistent.

And yet (resignedness) I can admire a place with an “indigenous” food culture, completely contained within New Jersey borders. I’m talking about Taylor Ham: It’s not a secret, but New Jersey keeps it.

Taylor Ham is a sausage-like porcine product, with a texture at the midpoint between Canadian Bacon and Spam. The salient element in the very popular “Taylor ham and cheese” sandwich, it anchors NJ’s pork roll culture. It’s worth noting that this is strange to a Midwesterner—until only recently, the breakfast sandwich, or generally consuming breakfast with your hands, was relatively foreign. Plates. Bowls. There are reasons why this is accurate.

In the summer of 2005, my green ignorance of both Taylor ham and beach culture was met with astonishment, and quickly I was ushered to the deli.

Now, Taylor ham is usually prepared by slicing the sides so that the middle doesn’t bubble up, then placed on the griddle until it’s crispy.


Its sodium-nitrate-infused succulence might be sandwiched, or lay atop an omelet. As I mentioned, Taylor ham rarely leaves New Jersey (I guess the rest of the country can make do?) but it is worth sampling should you find yourself, sandy and terrified, on the boardwalk this summer.

Naturally, in New Jersey, all paths lead back to politics: John Taylor of the Taylor Provisions Company (1837-1909), was a New Jersey State Senator who punted street vendors in NJ and presided over the Inter-State Fair. To this day, Taylor ham is made not far from Taylor Street in Trenton.

Photo sources: No Frills Marilyn, Buba69

Persona Non Grata

I returned to my apartment the other night to the following note taped to my door, flanked by a petite container of lubricant.



The note reads:
"Here: Use this lubricator on your door, so it stops sounding like Dracula's grave. And, please, show/have good manners and stop slamming your door, there people living here, [sic] not everybody is an animal."

Ok, our door is a tad on the creaky side, point taken. Since this transgression Tuesday evening, I have been evaluating our neighbors as potential culprits. Charlie also greased the hinges.

NEIGHBOR ONE: The lesbian Fonz, Meescha. Some heartbroken lass showed up to our building and would not stop buzzing the door. I assumed it was a delivery person (mea culpa mea culpa) and buzzed this sore chick in. She proceeded to wail at Meescha's door FOR A SOLID HOUR, beseeching Casanova to let her in. MEEEESHA! MEEEEEESCHA! The urban equivalent of wolves howling at the moon. Terrifying.
NEIGHBOR TWO: Sweet next door neighbor who is a grad student. She listens to electronic music at 5:45am. Doubtful.
NEIGHBOR THREE: Angry court jester dude. This guy has metal-bottomed boots, wears a crushed velvet hat that looks like a colostomy bag, and lives above us. It always sounds like they are moving furniture, but it must just be him walking. He has made attempts to be "neighborly" but I draw the line at "Hello" and "How are you?" and tensely move past him. Once he caught me unlocking my door after work, and took the opportunity to vent some hot rage about how cold I am. I smiled, nodded, said "Good to see you too" then sealed myself in my apartment, waiting for the confirmation of his footsteps walking away. He now pretends he doesn't see me. Which is fine.

I don't know the rest of my neighbors because I live in a grown-up dorm but it least it doesn't smell like urine so that's something.

BEST WORD er, PHRASE HEARD THIS WEEK: brickpunk classic (I want the car or toaster this refers to)
WORST WORD HEARD THIS WEEK: trenchant (this word makes me twitch)