A Taste of Home: How Pepperoni Rolls Connect Me to My Roots
The official state food of West Virginia, pepperoni rolls are a staple for funerals, wakes, and periods of convalescence. Southerners bring casseroles in times of crisis; West Virginians bring pepperoni rolls.
The recipe in its simplest form is bread dough and sliced stick pepperoni. Some people make their own dough; some people use frozen rolls. (Bridgford is the only acceptable brand to use). Some folks like to add cheese to their pepperoni rolls, but in my family that’s tantamount to blasphemy.
Moonshine Days
Moonshine, the Southern elixir of life, has many names — some disparaging, some inspiring: corn mash, white lightning, hooch, bathtub gin.
My Own Dutch House
Nestled in a narrow alleyway amongst twisty-turny streets, the Ferguson Street house has long captured my imagination. When I was small, I reveled in discovering its secrets: a dark basement with tapered stairs lined with jars of canned goods, culminating in an honest-to-God black cauldron used for apple butter and sauce; a seldom-used parlor with two vintage organs, imposing as dark sentinels in their watchfulness over the space; a converted attic where my great-uncle slept, a place I was granted access to only once in my life.
A Dime in His Pocket
My grandparents’ farm appeared frozen in time, an anachronistic reminder of humble days. The warm, fetid smell of cow manure and the cool, earthy scent of the blue-green grass greeted me as soon as I opened my car door and stepped out onto the gravel road.
My Beloved Pop: A Eulogy and Tribute to My Unsung Hero
All of these memories are wonderful and painful at the same time. In Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Victor’s mother has just died, and he muses: “the first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth, had visited, and its dimming influence quenched our dearest smiles.” I profoundly feel Victor’s sentiments right now with the loss of my dad. My attachment to the world is lessened because he is not here. In fact, it’s hard to view the world the same way now that he’s gone.
Typing Takes Us to the City
What makes a person a trailblazer? Must they be defined by their immigration to a harsh terrain or an undiscovered land?
My mom calls my aunt Barbara a trailblazer, a pathfinder, though she certainly never completed any of the stereotypical feats of one. My aunt doesn’t see herself as anything brave or special, though she did leave the hills and hollers of southern West Virginia at the tender age of 17 to move to Washington, D.C. My mom insists she never would have had the courage to leave if my aunt hadn’t paved the way.