I was five months pregnant with The Kid, and Petey, my mom, and I were driving north.
Unbeknownst to me, every living soul in New Jersey that was related to me in any manner was coming together to throw me a baby shower.
And this wasn’t a sweet, sedate Southern baby shower where one ate tiny little pimento cheese sandwiches, little pieces of cake, nuts, and sweet tea.
A baby shower in New Jersey, or at least the ones thrown by my Italian relatives, is a very different kind of soiree.
First of all, the attendees are not the mother-to-be, her mother, mother-in-law, her sorority sisters, and a few older ladies from church.
When I say it was every family member, I’m not kidding. This was every living sibling of my mother, their spouses, male and female, their children, their spouses or SO’s, their children, and anybody else who had a drop of shared DNA. There were new babies, babies on the way, and a few gleams in various eyes.
The tables were groaning with bowls and platters of potato and macaroni salad, sausage and meatballs to pile on sub rolls, stuffed mushrooms, at least three kinds of pasta, and zucchini and eggplant parmesan.
The cake was neither small nor dainty. It was a large, showy, whipped cream drenched confection that came from the local Italian bakery. Even if every single guest was pregnant and eating for themselves and a litter of babies, there would have been more than enough food.
I was still in the dark, party-wise, and didn’t know what was coming, so mom and Petey took me to the Englishtown mall. It was January, and I had been disappointed that there was no snow when we arrived. But at the mall door, I saw what looked like one last lonely mound of snow. So, I decided to jump into it.
After I leaped into it with both feet, I discovered it was a mound of ice cream—sticky ice cream that splashed my sweet little maternity jeans from the knees down. We went in anyway (we really entered the mall because preparations were going full tilt putting the party together). And Petey had been tasked with keeping me away.
I’m really glad about this mall visit, because of two memorable encounters I had.
The first was at a Body Shop store. When I walked in, the salesperson asked if I was expecting. Normally, this is a very dangerous question to ask, as I have learned to my own shame and embarrassment. Now I wouldn’t ask a woman if she is with child unless said child is actively exiting her body.
But, she was right and I was thrilled to tell any and everybody that I was growing a human.
She gave me a gift bag of products for the new baby and mother. Think baby wash and skin cream.
The second encounter was revelatory.
It was at lunch. The food court had a real Jersey deli. I wasn’t able to eat rare roast beef because, pregnent, so I had a Reuben. It was delicious, but the stellar part of the meal, that thing I’ll never forget, was the pickle.
It was the greatest kosher dill I have ever tasted. It was crispy and balanced and perfect. I wish I’d bought a barrel of them to bring home.
But of course, after the baby shower, there was no room in the car for a barrel of pickles. There was barely room for the three and a half of us. And we also had a stowaway.
Next week, I’ll share part two; the road home.
Thanks for your time.
Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.
When last we met (last week’s column), I was in the kitchen of Skylight Inn in Ayden, watching Mike “Chopper” Parrot. He was using his weighty, custom-made cleavers to chop pound after pound of some of the most beautiful pork I’ve ever seen. Slow-cooked ‘til falling-apart tender, with crispy skin so golden it should be stored in Fort Knox like the precious substance it is.
The man currently looking after this family concern, Sam Jones comes into the kitchen, and asks if I would like to visit his new restaurant, Sam Jones BBQ. He also wants to take me to the old family homestead, to see the pit on which his grandfather, Pete Jones, learned to put fire to pig.
The expanded menu of Sam Jones BBQ is the motivation for the new eatery. Skylight has been a beloved tradition since 1947. You don’t put the Statue of Liberty in a sundress, you don’t get Harry Potter contacts, and changing the menu at Skylight just isn’t done.
And, if you’re a stickler for tradition and can’t quite make it Ayden, they also serve the classic Skylight plate of barbecue, coleslaw and cornbread.
It’s not like anything I’ve ever eaten before. It’s definitely not cakey, sweet, normal cornbread. I’ve had corn sticks, that’s not what it is either. My problem is I descend from Yankees. If I’d had some Southern kin, it wouldn’t be unfamiliar. ‘Cause it’s cornpone.
Sam told me there are only four ingredients—and one is lard. But after some looking, I’ve found a recipe that doesn’t come from the Jones family but comes out as close as you’re going to get without a trip east (which I enthusiastically recommend).
Thanks for your time.
bull city mom 