For me, the decision by Boar’s Head to end production is just the latest blow to a somewhat squishy slice of national and personal history.
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The decision by Boar’s Head last week to end its production of liverwurst made perfect business sense, of course. A listeria outbreak traced to a plant in Virginia had killed nine people and sickened dozens; closing the operation indefinitely and eliminating the main culprit was the least the company could do.
Besides, who in this world will bemoan a diminished supply of a cold cut that has the look and consistency of wet cement? Whose very name is an argument for vegetarianism?
Me, for one. And as I write this, I can almost hear the long awkward pause before someone, somewhere, sheepishly whispers, “Me, too.”
Liverwurst is not part of my daily diet, as evidenced by the fact that I am still upright. Years will pass before I give in. But every so often I crave a slice of the American past, only to find that, like succotash or Jell-O molds, it is disappearing right in front of me.
This thought occurred to me when, not long ago, I ventured out of the newsroom in search of once-ubiquitous liverwurst. My holy quest led me to Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan, where the display cases of various delis and bodegas were devoid of liverwurst but overcrowded with turkey: smoked turkey, maple turkey, peppercorn turkey, buffalo turkey, turkey, turkey, turkey.
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