NEW YORK >> 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 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.

I finally wandered into a Ninth Avenue establishment that had once been a reliable purveyor of cold cuts. Advertised on the marquee above the counter were various sandwich options, including liverwurst, and my heart leapt with joy, or maybe fear.

On rye with mustard and tomato, please, I said.

“Sorry, boss,” the counterman said. “No liverwurst.”

“But it’s on the sign!”

He glanced at the board above him, shrugged, and said, “Sorry, boss. Turkey?”

I left with a sad-sack turkey on rye and the realization that I was morphing into another crank who thinks everything was better back in his day, down to the sunsets. When this transformation is complete, please beat me with a stickball bat.

Well into the 1970s and ‘80s, liverwurst and its equally problematic cousin, bologna, remained the cylindrical pillars of lunchtime, at least in the metropolitan area. They were eaten because they were cheap, and they were cheap because — well, let’s just embrace the bliss of ignorance.

At the Catholic grammar school I attended, you brought liverwurst or bologna for lunch from Monday through Thursday and peanut butter and jelly on Friday. A half-pint of milk, a couple of stale ShopRite cookies, and you were ready to tackle the concept of transubstantiation.

In my teens and early 20s, I was a deli clerk for hire, a white-paper hat perched on my head, quick on the draw with a pencil tucked behind an ear. A cold-cuts paladin.

But the undisputed master of the deli domain was the Boar’s Head deliveryman, Herman. Wearing a dark work uniform that fit him like a Brooks Brothers suit, chest hair tufting from above his shirt’s unfastened top button, he would wheel in his precious cargo, then help himself to a coffee and a Danish. He knew that without Herman — that is, without Boar’s Head — there was nothing but potato salad.

The cylindrical luncheon meats would be arrayed in deli display cases like missile shells — liverwurst, bologna, hard salami, Genoa salami, mortadella, Taylor ham — with the roast beef and turkey seated on silver platters befitting their royal deli status. Parents would line up to order the sustenance necessary to get their broods through the week, hovering over the slicer and demanding that everything be sliced thin.

Thinner. No, thinner. Thinner. I could have held up a slice of air for their inspection and still hear: Thinner.

Ordering a pound of ham was an acceptable aberration from the bologna-and-liverwurst routine; perhaps an anniversary or birthday justified the extra expense.

Over the decades that followed, liverwurst lost its display-case prominence as eating habits changed in the ever-confusing pursuit of healthy diets. Although a good protein source high in nutrients, including iron and vitamin B, liverwurst is also high in fat and sodium. And, of course, there is that wet-cement color. And that semisolid texture. And the, um, ingredients.

I know, I know. I know liverwurst is still out there to be found, in some delicatessen display cases. But its gradual vanishing feels like something removed from life’s menu.

We all hold on to things that return us to where we came from, back to a place centered more in time than in geography. A certain doll, television show, snack — they are the lifesavers we cling to as the riptide of the years pulls us farther and farther from familiar shores.

For me, one of those items is, unfortunately, liverwurst. I see again the long-gone mothers of my childhood friends, calling me Danny as they order cold cuts sliced thin. I see Herman, leaning against the walk-in refrigerator with Danish in hand, confident that the world would always need his bologna and liverwurst.

And, sometimes, late at night, I just want another slice of whatever that was.