The Junk in My Trunk: A Cross-Country Chronicle

by: Kelly Carcione

Day #28

It is mid-April and we are pre-vacation in Vacationland. That much was clear during our 60-hour stay in Maine, most of which was spent seeking out open lobster shacks. There hasn’t been much excitement driving through Maine’s backcountry either, at least not until the dog spotted a roadside moose and exploded like a firecracker, bouncing around the backseat. For the past three hours, John has kept himself busy looking out for Steven King lurking in the dusky woods but I’ve got my eye on half a banana resting in the cup-holder. We’re out of food and low on gas. The next town, The Forks, is still 23 miles away.

Well, we were nearly through The Forks (pop. 35) before we realized we were in it at all. No gas station, no motel, no rustic diner. Night has fallen. Fear and starvation set in.

When we finally roll into Jackman, the population swells to 720, although I can count the hustle and bustle on one hand when we enter the general store. A burly, bearded giant grunts at the deli case and an equally burly woman fidgets with her keychain near the bathroom door. A couple of hunters spring from the sporting goods section armed with cases of Budweiser and bullets. I hurry past the pre-made hoagies and place our order: a large pepperoni pizza and a side order of jalapeno poppers. John goes out to fill the tank and I fill my pockets with napkins. We’ll be taking this order to go.

Safe in the minivan, I am excited for pizza, but John insists that we have appetizers first. Fine. We search our bags for the poppers. No poppers. Didn’t you order jalapeno poppers? I thought I saw him write it down. He must have left them out of the bag. I know I ordered them. Where the hell is the receipt…

When we open the pizza box, the mystery is solved. Glistening in their grassy green glory, there are jalapenos on our pepperoni pizza.

A native New Yorker, I come from a long line of pizza purists. The old Italian guys at home would scoff at this monstrosity. Jalapenos on a pepperoni pie? They would sooner die. I feel a scarlet P burning right through my Dollywood sweatshirt.

A native non-New Yorker, John is undaunted, shoving half a slice down his throat before I can fully absorb this nightmare. I can’t do it. I pluck the first pepper off and hurl it out the window. But when I take the first bite, what remains of its flavor runs like a current through my body. God, that’s good! The jalapenos have softened a bit in the oven, but by no means do they relent. This is flavor that stands up for itself but makes an easy friend, sharing the spotlight at center stage. After three days of gooey chowders and lackluster lobster rolls, perfection has presented itself on a dim, desolate highway and we are giddy with its discovery.

John proclaims this pizza as the best he’s ever had. And O.K., I’ll admit it. I AGREE, and our eyes explode in laughter when I mistake the thud of a passing pickup for Grandpa Nino rolling over in his Brooklyn grave.