Pickled Pig's Feet - essay

While we are all waiting to hear what the "noble cause" is/was, and trying desperately to maintain our sanity in the world of Bush/"Cheney and the neocons, let's take a break and consider a more down to earth problem.

Many, many years ago when I was a child my mother sometimes made picked pigs feet. I don’t remember much about how she actually did it but I do recall a series of crocks and having to change the feet from one crock to another for several days. I had no qualms whatsoever about eating pig’s feet. My father ate them with gusto, although I don’t remember my mother eating them. She must have made them just for him, just as she fried side pork for him, although she hated it. In any case, like my father, I loved both of those wonderful treats. It was not until I reached adolescence that I learned from my peers that not only did they not eat pig’s feet, they found the very idea utterly revolting. This caused me to think more carefully about this standard Scandinavian foodstuff, but it did not deter me. I continued consuming them whenever I could until I eventually left home (although not mentioning publicly my now secret behavior).
Naturally they did not serve pigs feet in dormitories or fraternities, nor could one expect to find them in restaurants. Thus I went without pickled pigs feet for many years. After I married it was quite clear that asking for pig’s feet, pickled or otherwise, would be quite out of the question. Not only did any of my wives not know how to make pickled pigs feet, they would have quite likely threatened divorce had I even suggested such a disgusting thing. Knowing what side my bread was buttered on, so to speak, I never mentioned the subject. So… I went without my beloved trotters for many more years. I would say all of sixty years in all.
I can’t say that going without pickled pigs’ feet really bothered me much. I certainly didn’t suffer withdrawal symptoms or anything like that. But in my dotage, for some mysterious reason, I began to think more and more about this, and ruminating on the unfairness of it all. From time to time I began to notice you could buy canned pickled pigs’ feet in the market. But as I knew commercially canned pigs’ feet could not possibly be anything like Mother’s, I resisted the temptation. Recently, however, I began to observe that our local meat market occasionally sold uncooked pigs’ feet. Those little cute white trotters beckoned me for weeks and weeks, every time I visited the market. But still I resisted, thinking it would be too much trouble and I probably couldn’t do anything that complicated. Even so, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. I wouldn’t say I was obsessed, but I found myself surreptitiously eyeing this esoteric delicacy more carefully each time I visited the market.
I’m sure you know how such things go. The more I thought about it the more curious I became. One thing led to another. I looked up Pig's Feet Recipes on Google. I found there is a veritable plethora of recipes, indeed, a surfeit of instruction about making pickled pigs feet. And much to my surprise, they are all easy. They don’t involve multiple crocks and such. Even I, I quickly recognized, could do it. They were that simple.
But not so fast! There were certain logistical problems. For example, I needed to know if we had all the necessary ingredients. I began looking in cupboards. My wife asked, “What are you doing?” I replied that I was just looking for some stuff. “Stuff? What stuff? Knowing I would eventually have to admit the truth I said, “Oh, just bay leaves, red pepper, cloves, cider vinegar, stuff like that.” This wife, who is a marvelous cook, and very bright, especially when it comes to me, said, “You’re going to make pickled pigs feet, aren’t you?” I sheepishly allowed as to how I might try it. Much to her credit, after rolling her eyes, she left the room and never said another word about it.
This brought up another problem. After listening to people for sixty years or more denigrating pig’s feet, I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to buy them. What would people think? Would they make fun of me? Somehow the idea of buying pig’s feet had taken on an aura of depravity, even sinfulness. Certainly it would be embarrassing, like having to buy tampax or suppositories. But having committed myself to the project I couldn’t very well make pickled pigs feet without the pigs feet, could I? So, on a day where I spied a particularly nice looking pair of trotters I quickly put them into my shopping basket, careful to add some other items to help camouflage them. After all, I had been shopping in this market for many years and had never bought pig's feet before. Holding my breath and refusing eye contact I went through the checkout stand. Sure enough, the checker recognized me, looked at me as though I must have suddenly gone mad, shook her head, I guess in disbelief, but gracefully held her tongue. I slunk out of the place in disgrace.
I still had to cook the things. This required about three hours. I waited for a time when I knew my wife and son would be gone and then proceeded to prepare my much longed for delicacy. Unfortunately they both came home early and complained bitterly that the house reeked of vinegar which, of course, it did. But I succeeded! After cooling the concoction for a while I placed it in a tight container in the refrigerator to let it mature properly.
The final problem had to do with when to eat what I had proudly prepared. I wasn’t going to take a chance on eating it in front of my wife and child. I was afraid of what they might think, seeing me greedily eating this gelatinous substance. Besides, my son is a vegetarian. I didn’t want to risk damaging our relationship for life. I waited until they had both gone to bed and were safely asleep before I tasted my pickled pigs’ feet. I want you to know they are absolutely delicious. Just as my Mother used to make. But I won’t do it again. It is far too stressful. Have to think of my health. Although Pickled Pigs Feet are very good, they are not good for me.