Pickled pigs' feet provide a culinary delight that's best avoided

Nearly two months ago, I received a Facebook message from my friend, Gillburg resident Gene Thompson. Having read my column on pickled eggs and beets, Gene posed a related pickling question — had I ever partaken of pickled pigs’ feet?

Now, most folks would have replied with a flat-out “no” to Gene’s inquiry, maintaining no desire to dine on the marinated hog hooves. And that’s because most folks possess some semblance of common sense.

Yet, my appetite for adventure affirmed for me what I must eat. And so, Friday night I drove the distance from Epsom to Gillburg for my first feast of pickled pigs’ feet.

Nervously, I knocked my knuckles on the Thompson’s front door, knowing I’d be gnawing on another set of knuckles in the near fated future. And under my arm, I carried a brown-bagged bottle of liquid courage.

Gene and his wife, Beverly, soon greeted me. And while Gene brandished his bottle of pickled pigs’ feet, his son, Matt, gave a disbelieving nod from a nearby couch.

“I can’t believe you’re crazy enough to eat that stuff,” Matt said, as I settled beside him for a pre-dinner discussion.

Admittedly, I had high hopes that I’d like those pickled pigs’ feet. While Gene and Beverly prepared my pork treat, I imagined myself consuming the old-timers’ cuisine — and later writing a column that would encourage Dispatch readers to abandon their misconceptions of the pickled “other white meat.”

Yet, all nonsensical fantasies must perish at some point.

As the bowlful of pickled pigs’ feet passed from Gene’s hands to mine, I captured my first sight of the hog-lover’s delight.

Suddenly, I grieved the lost lives of those dead hogs, whose fatty chunks of feet were swarming in a soup of vinegar — ready for me to eat.

“Lord, help me!” I prayed as my lips parted for my first sliver of swine. And as the slimy serving of cold skin touched my tongue, I quivered and gulped down those poor departed pigs’ feet.

“Thank God I’ve never been that hungry!” Beverly laughed as she poured me a post-souse soda.

Diet Coke never tasted so good.

Dinner followed, as did another dose of liquid courage. And while our party passed three hours with storytelling and laughter, a place mat companion taunted me with an occasional “oink.”

“I’m going to do it again,” I groaned, as I hoisted the bowl of hog parts before me once more.

“You don’t have to do that,” Gene assured, while Beverly insisted that I was a brave girl.

“This should help,” I said, gulping a stiff serving of liquid courage as I prepared myself for another piece of those pickled pigs’ feet.

But it did not.

“Get this ‘stuff’ away from me!” I winced, while Gene hurled the hog scraps into the trash. And at that moment, before both God and the Thompsons, I vowed to never again eat pickled pigs’ feet. Or any feet for that matter.

While I thank Gene Thompson for my trial taste of soused swine, I’m convinced there are certain parts of a pig that just aren’t meant to eat. And so I’ll steer clear of pickled pigs’ feet — and save snouts, ears and tails for another culinary adventure.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Pickled pigs’ feet provide a culinary delight that’s best avoided

Burned into my memory ... like Mama's biscuits

This year, Thanksgiving Day dinner is a big deal for the Eaves household. It’s the last time my sisters and I will gather together while still sharing the same last name. While I’m thankful for my future brother-in-law — and likewise the approaching destination wedding in tropical Tulum, Mexico — I’m a bit nostalgic as our final unwed days draw nigh. And so this Thursday, I’ll combat my Thanksgiving Day despondency with a dose of holiday humor.

Every Thanksgiving Day, there are two constant companions at the Eaves family dinner table — a “box-packaged” pumpkin pie and a basket full of Mama’s burnt biscuits.

“Dinner sure was good, Mama,” I moaned after last year’s feast. Glancing below, I gawked at my bulging belly, which drooped over a denim waistline that poorly concealed my post-giblet gravy jiggle.

“Thank you, darling,” Mama smiled as she sliced her Sara Lee pumpkin pie, adding dollops of Cool Whip to the after-dinner treat.

While Mama served up slices of the pie that “Nobody doesn’t like,” my oldest sister reached her hand into the still-bountiful bread basket and snagged one of Mama’s black-bottomed biscuits.

“Delicious!” she jabbed, joined by a series of sisterly snickers.

Mama stopped smiling.

And so did Daddy, who’d long ago learned to avoid such cackling conflicts. As Daddy’s nostrils flared a distress signal to my sisters and me, he polished his plate with his bare thumb, licking up every crumb – even the burnt ones.

Now, in addition to burnt bread and pre-prepared pumpkin pies, my family has another turkey day tradition — a sisterly squabble. Dating back to childhood, these spats typically spark after supper. And while the family feud is never resolved, it somehow subsides with the push of the power button on Daddy’s flat screen TV.

“Let’s watch a movie!” Audrey suggested after supper as she prepared hot chocolate for the family. And so, we sisters grabbed our marshmallow-topped mugs, a second slice of pumpkin pie, and piled onto Mama’s living room couch.

“Give me a pillow!” I fussed while Audrey laid claim to the cushioned headrest.

“I’m the oldest. I’m entitled!” Wendy said as she conquered the couch with outstretched legs, knocking both baby sister Audrey and me onto the floor, relegating us to lower status as she displayed her oldest sibling sovereignty.

“Don’t mess up my living room!” Mama scolded, while foretelling our fate if we spilled hot chocolate onto her carpeted floor or her hard-earned couch.

About that time, the back porch door opened and swiftly swung shut. And while Daddy settled onto the outside stoop, he lit a cigarette.

“What are we going to watch?” I asked the indoor, tempered trio.

“Well, I think one of these would be nice,” Mama said, as she grabbed two VHS tapes from our childhood movie collection.

And so, the seasonal scrap erupted over none other than Charlie Brown and his beagle best friend, Snoopy.

“I want to watch “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!” I said, grabbing the Charles Schulz Christmas classic from Mama’s hands and waving it to the jury.

“No,” Wendy bickered back. “It’s Thanksgiving! I want to watch ‘A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.’ ”

Our opening arguments soon transitioned into a shouting match, leaving little room for arbitration. And although I defended the Charlie Brown Christmas special, it was Wendy’s closing statement that closed the case.

“Snoopy cooks Thanksgiving dinner in my movie,” Wendy said. “He cooks popcorn and toast.”

As last year’s customary quarrel concluded with laughter, my sisters and I snuggled together on Mama’s living room couch and watched Wendy’s case-winning “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.” And then, we traded VHS tapes for an encore presentation of “Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown!” My sisters and I soon said our “good nights.” And later that evening after I settled into bed, I thanked God for Thanksgiving Day, for Mama’s burnt biscuits, for Sara Lee’s pumpkin pies. And for Wendy and Audrey, who will remain my sisters despite a change in last names — or their preference in Peanuts movies.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Burned into my memory like Mama’s biscuits

There's no way to coop up 'ambition'

Last weekend, I bid both Mama and Daddy farewell for a few days away from Epsom. My beet-pickling pals, John and Bev Lazar, were Pennsylvania bound for the weekend and in need of a house-sitter — or rather, chicken-sitter. And so, I answered their call to the coop, where I braced myself for a battle with their backyard biddies.

To be fair, it wasn’t the female members of the flock that signaled the weekend warfare. Indeed, it was another cluck that caused me to curse and fuss that Saturday night, spearheading quite a moonlit cockfight. By battle’s end, I’d clasped the feathered fiend into my bare hands. And thrusting the rowdy rooster into his coop, I’d hollered out his newly appointed name — one that indicated his poultry parents were not married.

Nonetheless, my Saturday night squabble with the squawking savage evoked the memory of another beaked brute — my childhood pet rooster, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo.

I was 10 years old the day when Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo made his way to Epsom and into my Daddy’s chicken coop. While the young Rhode Island Red clucked and crowed his “Here I am!” to my family and our five hens, Daddy gathered feed for the feathered flock. Meanwhile, a disapproving Mama dried dishes by the kitchen sink and, peering from the kitchen sink window, mouthed a few choice words.

A conventional cluck, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo rendered his female roost-mates far beneath his pecking order. Likewise, his chauvinism extended beyond the poultry pen, attacking his female tenders, my sisters and me, with outstretched talons.

“You better put some pants on before you go out there,” Mama cautioned me one day as, clad in shorts, I embarked on an early morning egg gathering. “That rooster will claw your bare legs up one side and down the other!”

And so I traded my scrappy shorts for a pair of paint-stained jeans and headed for the backyard chicken coop.

“Bawk, bawk, bawk!” cried Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo, red feathers flapping as he flew towards me. Talons tearing into my Levis, the cranky rooster commenced to pecking at me until I dashed free from the fowl’s fury — forfeiting the day’s eggs.

As Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo matured into manhood, his chauvinistic taunts transitioned into totalitarian rooster rule. And when it came to the hens, well ... let’s say Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo had “ambition.”

“Mama! What’s Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo doing to Chicken Little!” I hollered one morning, while white feathers flapped from our most mature madam of the hen house.

As Mama explained “ambition” to me, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo laid claim to his second pick of the chicken clique, Bo Peep. Soon, Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo had worn the hind feathers off of both of those hens.

“Those chickens don’t look so good,” Mama remarked one afternoon to my daddy, after another round of Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo’s ambition.

Daddy’s only answer was silence, save the nodding of his straw hat-clad head. And then he lit a cigarette.

Years passed — and likewise, so did those chickens. The hens first flew the coop to the hereafter. Mr. Cock-a-diddle-doo followed the flock shortly thereafter, where I’m sure he faced a mighty foul judgment from his maker. And eventually, that old chicken coop was torn down and replaced by an outdoor utility building, destined to be Daddy’s workshop and hideaway from Mama and my sisters. That is, until I moved back home and converted it into a storage unit.

And so, our story ends with a lot of lost ambition and six dead chickens — and Daddy cooped in a house full of “hens,” still nodding his head in silence. And still smoking cigarettes.



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - There’s no way to coop up ‘ambition’

Battle of the 'bands' pits man against bovine

“Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother
You’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.
Feel the city breakin’ and everybody shakin’
You’re stayin alive, stayin’ alive ...”

— “Stayin’ Alive,”
Saturday Night Fever,
The Bee Gees, 1977

I’m a product of the 80’s, when teased bangs and tight-rolled stonewashed jeans first flashed onto the fashion scene. Yet every now and then, another decade beckons me back to the days of silver sequins, platform shoes and disco dance moves.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” I sang along with the Bee Gees last Friday night, while my best friend Kris and I traveled a rural road we Epsom natives call Moonshine Alley.

We were mid-chorus, cackling and clapping to the 1970’s chart-topper, when an unsuspecting stranger sallied up beside of us – breaking our midnight musical bond with the Gibb brothers’ band.

“Whoa!” Kris shouted, as she slammed her Subaru to a screeching stop.

Initially, I was oblivious to our approaching roadside rascal. Such ignorance was a short-lived bliss shattered by the shining of a single headlight on our horned and hoofed spectator.

“Watch out for that cow!” I bellowed my belated warning as my best friend stared straight ahead at an ol’ black cow.

Now, it’s been said that animals travel in pairs – meaning where there’s one critter, or in this case “cow,” there’s another mate nearby. And sure enough, there was a converging of cattle that night, out on Moonshine Alley.

The ol’ black cow sounded a mournful “moo.” And in answer to his “call of the wild,” two dark drifters emerged from the neighboring pasture, crossing its broken fence line.

As the newly formed bovine band plodded alongside our Subaru for a Friday night stroll, the once tall and trim Barry Gibb continued to sing his “Saturday Night Fever” chart-topper.

“We’ve got to be careful,” Kris said as she tapped the gas pedal of the stationary Subaru, inadvertently alerting the herd of our homeward route.

“Moo,” moaned the crowd of cows, as they moved closer to our creeping car.

“Cows’ll chase cars just like dogs,” I cried to Kris, while the trio trotted alongside us.

“I know!” Kris replied, as the cattle congregation commenced to a gallop, mooing as it moved down Moonshine Alley.

Suddenly, “Stayin’ Alive” seemed more like a mission than a disco dance favorite.

Admittedly, this is the moment I abandoned my best friend. Shutting my eyes tight, I grabbed hold of the car’s seat cushion and cried out for divine intervention.

And sure enough, the Lord did provide.

“Ah, ha, ha, ha — stayin’ alive, stayin alive,” sang the Bee Gees, as if beckoning Kris to gun the gas pedal. And after we prayed a hurried, “Hallelujah, Amen!” our Subaru squealed away from the mad-cow caper.

Some consider divine intervention to be an outfit of winged angels, heaven-sent to help us in our times of trouble. And I’d have to agree. Yet, there are those exceptions. As was the case last Friday night, when another sort of band saved my best friend and me from a crowd of cows out on Moonshine Alley.

Even heroes have their foibles

Two weeks ago, networks worldwide broadcast the historic rescue of 33 Chilean miners, who for more than two months had been buried alive after part of the San Jose copper-gold mine collapsed. The miraculous extraction, meticulously maneuvered by collaborative international efforts, ended after the Fenix 2 rescue capsule completed its 39th journey up and down an engineered rescue shaft. While underground rescue workers waved a banner brandishing the message “Mission Accomplished Chile,” President Sebastian Pinera led Camp Hope, and the world, in “Cancion Nacional,” Chile’s national anthem. And for a moment, we were all Chilean.

Once unearthed from their two-month entombment, the 33 miners have discovered new captivity in fame’s spotlight. And as talks of TV and movie offers emerge, as well as a book deal detailing the miners’ survival one half mile below ground, something else so human has surfaced from the San Jose Mine.

Discord.

An alleged pact made by all 33 miners to never disclose details of the first 17 days they were trapped has now been broken. And despite a signed pledge to evenly split all proceeds from media attention, rescued miner Jorge Galleguillos told Reuters, “I have to think about myself,” when admitting he would speak of the miners’ experience for a fee.

“There are certain things which need to be told. I want the world to know the truth about what we went through down there,” rescued miner Mario Sepulveda told Britain’s Daily Mail, refuting rumors of cannibalism and male sex among the miners while trapped underground for 69 days. “We were swallowed into the bowels of hell, but we have been reborn, and now I feel it is my duty to tell what went on and the lessons to be learned.”

Yonni Barrios, the miner made famous by his exposed extra-marital affair with mistress Susana Valenzuela, is among those discussing the 10-week survival after the mine cave-in. Despite widespread public praise for shift foreman Luis Urzua’s leadership during the days, weeks and months that followed the mine’s collapse, Barrios has openly criticized Urzua, describing him as having “lost control” after the collapse, and stating that “in the most critical moments, he wasn’t with us.”

The miners’ survival stories continue to surface, shedding light on their time buried alive in a rock and rubble grave. And despite the developing discord among the men, I’m encouraged by the unity that defied death’s odds and led to their extraction from the San Jose mine.

Perhaps as Barrios claims, Luis Urzua wasn’t “with” his men in their most critical moments. Yet, nations worldwide were with these miners — from the moment of the cave-in on Aug. 5 to the first freedom cry on Oct. 12.

I am among the worldwide citizens who read daily news reports of the rescue efforts. I am among the masses who, hours before Operation San Lorenzo, prayed to my God for the safety and rescue of these trapped men. I am among the one billion viewers who anxiously awaited the ascent of these 33 miners as Fenix 2 descended into the San Jose mine. And I am among the multitudes who witnessed a miracle for both the Chilean miners and mankind on a campground appropriately called Camp Hope.

For but a moment, nations across the globe were united by one shared cause — the rescue of 33 Chilean miners. Pop-culture icons cast aside, our newfound heroes were wage workers donning hard hats — and yes, Oakley sunglasses. These “regular folk,” forced into a do-or-die survival strategy, inspired a cross-cultural coalition, and a “Camp Hope” for what our world can accomplish when working together and with our God. Miracles.