Hunters or Jenkins: A Burke County breakfast civil war

If you want to get a minor ruckus started in Burke County, walk into a crowded room where some alcohol has been consumed and yell out one of the following statements:

“Trump ain’t nothing but an orange-hued idiot!”

“The Tar Heels suck!”

“Ya momma wears Army boots!”

If you’d rather incite a major ruckus, with thrown punches, broken bones, and ambulance runs to the emergency room sure to follow, scream as loudly as possible, “The best livermush in these parts is Hunters. Jenkins ain’t nothing but doggy do.”

Or vice versa.

Yep, folks in Burke County take their livermush seriously.

As we should.

Nearly all of us pledge allegiance either to Hunters or Jenkins and to the pork snouts for which they stand. Only a few renegades, malcontents, and commie sympathizers throw out names like Mack’s or Neese’s.

For those unaware, Hunters traces its heritage back for some 70 years to Marion where Roy and Gurthie Hunter started making livermush and selling it directly out of their car to neighbors and local grocers.

Demand quickly grew, the business grew with it, and the couple built a production facility on Poteat Road in Marion. (If there’s a relative of mine involved here, I don’t know it.)

Today the business, which remains in the Hunter family, produces tens of thousands of pounds of livermush each week for distribution in Western North Carolina.

Just like Hunters, Jenkins was and is a family affair.

A gentleman by the distinguished moniker of Benjamin Plato Jenkins started making large pans of livermush in the family kitchen and selling it to local grocery stores and restaurants.

This was back in the midst of the Great Depression.

Although the address for the Jenkins production facility is New House Road, Shelby, the plant is actually “out in the country,” closer to the rural Cleveland County community of Polkville.

And yes, just like Hunters, Jenkins turns out livermush by the ton each week.

So, both Hunters and Jenkins are produced in counties that neighbor Burke — Hunters in McDowell and Jenkins in Cleveland.

Both are family-owned businesses with deep roots in the area.

And both help ensure that no parts of a healthy pig go to waste in a product that contains primarily pig ears and pig snouts, a small amount of pig liver, corn meal, and spices and herbs.

So, what’s the difference? Why do some folks eat Hunters by the pound yet spit on the ground when Jenkins is mentioned?

And why do others swear that Jenkins will be served in Heaven’s cafeteria while the denizens of Hell will be eating Hunters as punishment?

Truth is, I will eat — and enjoy — either one.

Food Lion is out of Jenkins. I’ll buy Hunters.

The restaurant waitress tells me that Hunters is what they serve? No way I’m gonna flip over the table, grab my hat, and storm out of the restaurant.

But … if push comes to shove, if my hand is on the Bible and I’ve been sworn to tell the truth, I prefer Jenkins.

Four reasons…

When I fry Jenkins on my skillet, it comes away clean.

When I fry Hunters on the same skillet, a thin layer of grease is left behind.

When I fry Jenkins on the skillet, it gets nice and crispy, all the way through.

When I fry Hunters on the same skillet, the inside stays, well, mushy, no matter how long I let it cook.

My mama preferred Jenkins and it’s what I grew up eating. Heritage is important.

And finally, more than 35 years ago, I took the notion when I was editor of The News Herald that I wanted to do a lengthy feature story on the production of livermush.

Tried calling Hunters with the idea first. No dice. No way. No how.

Then called Jenkins. Their reaction, “Come on down here, boy, and we’ll show you all you want to see.”

And they did. I saw livermush made. Didn’t decrease my appetite one bit.

There you have it. Hunters or Jenkins, you’re not just choosing breakfast meat — you’re declaring lineage, loyalty, and possibly whether you’ll be invited back to Sunday breakfast.

Me? I’ll take Jenkins, say my mama’s name with pride, and keep my voice down in mixed company.

Because in Burke County, some arguments are best settled quietly at the breakfast table, fork in hand, livermush sizzling — and the ambulance on standby, just in case.