I grew up in eastern Pennsylvania, just outside of Philly, which means I grew up eating scrapple. It showed up on breakfast tables and restaurant menus. When ordering breakfast at a diner, the normal question was “do you want bacon, sausage or scrapple with your eggs?”  It was everyday, good food.

It wasn’t until years later that I realized not everyone knew what scrapple was, let alone loved it. For people unfamiliar with it, scrapple can sound like a challenge. It is a meat loaf made from pork scraps, cornmeal and spices, sliced and fried until it develops a crisp crust with a soft, savory interior. It is polarizing. People either love it or are horrified by it. Our family loves it.

Scrapple comes from the Pennsylvania Dutch, German-speaking immigrants who settled in the Mid-Atlantic centuries ago. As with all agrarian cultures, nothing was wasted.  When a hog was slaughtered, the prime cuts were set aside. Sausages were made. What remained (head, bones, trimmings, and offal) was simmered into a rich broth.  Bones and other inedible pieces were removed, the meat ground or shredded and returned to the broth, then thickened with cornmeal, seasoned, and poured into molds.  Once cooled, scrapple could be stored for an extended period.  Perfect food for frugal families, then and now.

Scrapple is not unique. In North Carolina, there is livermush. In Ohio, goetta. In Scotland, haggis. In France, pâté and terrines. In the UK and Ireland, black pudding. Different ingredients and preparations, same philosophy: respect the animal, waste nothing, feed people well.

My fiancée is from Denmark, and when I first prepared scrapple for us, I expected her to be dubious. Instead, she devoured it. Denmark has liverpostej, a rich liver pâté that shows up on breakfast tables and open-faced sandwiches (smørrebrød, a word I still can’t pronounce).  Scrapple made immediate sense to her.  She loved it from the first bite, earning her a permanent place in my family’s heart.

Scrapple is not something I left behind when I moved away. There is always a brick (or two) of it in my freezer in New York City. My California brother keeps it in his fridge. Every summer when we visit family in Michigan, we bring our mystery meat food culture with us. Our cousins may think we’re nuts, but we are who we are.

In our family, scrapple is not just food. It is an ongoing argument.

Is turkey scrapple worthy of the name? Some say yes. Others are correct.

Should scrapple be cut thick or thin before frying? I am firmly on the side of the thick cut. I want a real interior. Something soft and rich beneath the crust. My California brother, on the other hand, prefers thin-cut scrapple, which makes him wrong and, frankly, a little suspicious. He wants maximum crisp and no softness. I do not understand this man.

One of my sons does not eat scrapple.  Fortunately, I have two sons.  One of my nephews was caught putting – gulp – ketchup on his scrapple.  There are things in life that cannot be unseen…

For a family that loves its porky mystery meat, cooking scrapple in our house is a treacherous undertaking.  How thick are the slices? Are you using the right pan? Is it too crowded?  Is the heat too high, burning the crust?  Are you flipping it too early, making it fall apart?  The trademark sizzle and peppery, spicy smell fill our family kitchens with armchair cooks.

Cheesesteaks may be the famous Philly food, but for me, scrapple is the real heart of our food culture.  It’s something we cook, eat and argue over as a family, no matter where we congregate. It is as much of a tradition for thanksgiving weekend as devouring the turkey and commiserating over the Eagles (Go Birds!).

So here’s to scrapple. The thrifty, misunderstood, crispy-on-the-outside-soft-on-the-inside breakfast of champions.  You do not have to love it, but I do.