Milk and honey: it sure beats the alternative

“Go up to the land flowing with milk and honey.”

— Exodus 33:3

I wasn’t a bad child. I just wasn’t a good one. And while I strived to maintain satisfactory conduct in most social settings, I failed — as do most hyperactive children. My mother was confronted with my rambunctious repercussions during kindergarten registration.

“Mrs. Eaves, we don’t believe your daughter’s ready for the classroom,” the test administer said as I snickered from underneath a nearby table.

And so it was preschool for me, detained a year due to my misbehavior that day. But failure would be my fortune, for passing would have prevented me from meeting many of my childhood playmates — namely Keisha.

Keisha lived in the Franklin County community of Rocky Ford with her great-uncle Bill and Aunt Rose. Both long-standing members of Liberty Christian Church, the parental pair preached “the good word” to their slightly mischievous 6-year-old niece. And one day, while visiting their abode on Sims Bridge Road, the elderly couple likewise educated me.

“Mama,” I hollered that Saturday morning, standing beside our kitchen telephone which had only moments ago rung. “Can I go to Keisha’s?”

“Did Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose say it was OK?” Mama asked as she reached for the phone.

“Yes,” I said, squirming at Mama’s suspicion.

The good Lord must have willed that play date with Keisha. For moments later, Mama cranked our family’s Ford Granada and drove that sputtering clunker to downtown Rocky Ford.

“Behave yourself!” Mama warned as I waved goodbye to her and that gray Granada.

Aunt Rose greeted me at the door with a grin and then pointed towards a table topped with mid-morning snacks.

“Keisha!” she called to my friend, who soon scurried into the kitchen for her share of Sun Maid raisins and Hershey’s chocolate.

Snack time passed, and playtime commenced with a competitive round of Scrabble, and then Super Mario Brothers. Yet the Nintendo rivalry was paused when Aunt Rose rallied us for lunch.

We crowded around the kitchen table at high noon — Uncle Bill, Aunt Rose, Keisha and me. And while I can’t recall what Aunt Rose cooked for lunch, I remember a basket full of buttermilk biscuits and a controversial condiment.

“Here’s some honey,” Uncle Bill said, sliding a sticky, beehive-shaped bottle towards my friend.

“I don’t like honey,” Keisha frowned, forgoing the golden goo parked beside of her place mat.

And that’s when Uncle Bill taught me a lesson I’d never learn in any Franklin County public school.

“Well, you better learn to like it,” he said, squinting at both me and his niece. “Because when you get to heaven, that’s all you’ll be able to eat.”

“Nuh uh!” we girls giggled in disbelief.

“ ‘Tis true,” Uncle Bill grinned from above his bearded chin. “You’ll be in the land of milk and honey.”

Not long after lunch, Mama’s gray Granada crept up Keisha’s driveway. And as I crawled onto its burgundy back seat, I considered Uncle Bill’s bible lesson. Like Keisha, I didn’t like honey – or milk for that matter. And since I didn’t deem the land of milk and honey a happy hereafter, I decided I didn’t want to go there.

That is, until I researched the alternative. Fortunately, I acquired an affinity for both biblical provisions soon thereafter.

Many years have passed since that Promised Land lesson — as have Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose, who both bid this world goodbye when I was still a child. Yet, every time I scoop a spoonful of honey onto a buttermilk biscuit, I think of that elderly pair who raised their niece, Keisha, while well into their golden years. And with each bite of my honey-filled biscuit, I have no doubt that Uncle Bill and Aunt Rose are both eating honey-filled biscuits in the sweet bye and bye — in the land of milk and honey.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Milk and honey it sure beats the alternative

Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying

I was calling on my kinfolk the day I heard about the beaver.

Before the beaver, it was an otherwise ordinary Saturday — breakfast at Granny’s, a necessary nap following my breakfast at Granny’s, and an afternoon sojourn at my sister Wendy’s abode.

But all normality faded with the aforementioned animal.

The beaver saga began on my sister’s back door step, where I bounced about in an old overcoat to fend off the frigid winter air. And while it took several knocks at the door for my sister to save me from my freezing wait, Wendy eventually welcomed me with a Houdini-style towel wrapped around her head.

“Follow me,” the Great Houdini said as she moseyed to her bathroom mirror, where the magic of makeup awaited her.

Like most Southern women, Wendy administered foundation and rouge to her freshly cleaned face, soiling her skin from forehead to chin. And after blotting her color-stained lips with a Kleenex, she led me into her bedroom.

“Sit still,” she said, freeing her head from the Houdini’s hold. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” And with that, Wendy escaped inside of a nearby closet.

“Aha!” she cried, snatching the surprise.

“Aaaaaagh!” I screamed as my sister emerged from the closet, a dead fox dangling from her right hand.

And then she returned the pelt to its resting place, a wire clothes hanger.

“That’s just disgusting,” I scowled while Wendy settled into a nearby seat for a diet soda and some sister talk.

“I agree,” she said with the twist of her plastic bottle cap. “But it was a gift from my man-friend.”

“Well, at least you keep it in the closet,” I commended her.

“I told him enough was enough,” my sister sighed. “But then he caught me a 50-pound beaver.”

“Do what?!” I cried, skeptical that such a thing existed.

“Yes,” she affirmed of her man-friend’s find. “A 50-pound beaver. And he delivered the dead beaver onto my back door step. That is, before he transported it into the bath tub!”

Wendy then gestured to the guest bathroom down the hall.

“It’s nasty,” my sister said of the beaver. “It has these long, yellow teeth …”

As my sister described her beaver bathroom companion, I decided to cut my visit short that afternoon. And as I drove away from my sister’s dwelling, I did what all women with two sisters do.

I called the other sister.

“It’s just like a cat dragging up a dead rat!” I complained to my baby sister, Audrey.

“What’s she going to do with it?” Audrey asked, aghast that a beaver now resided in our older sister’s bath tub.

“I don’t know,” I laughed. “You don’t think she’ll try to cook it, do you?”

I couldn’t see my sister cooking beaver meat for dinner, despite her fondness for the man-friend. But as my conversation with sister Audrey concluded, we both agreed to steer clear of Wendy’s kitchen. At least for a few weeks.

I took the long route home that afternoon, if such a thing exists in these parts. And while I drove those Epsom roads, I wondered what I would do with a 50-pound beaver. Would I serve up some beaver stew for my man-friend?

“That would mandate an act of magic,” I said, reflecting on my sister’s sacrifice of sanity as I pulled into my drive. “Why, that would take the Great Houdini.”



Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Eaves Bathroom beaver sends this scared sister scurrying

Like a doe in the headlights, sister blinded by affection for man-friend

Initially, this week’s column was going to be on the topic of New Year’s resolutions. And while it was a timely piece for the small percentage of people who have yet to break their annual, all-too-often unattainable goals, another current event caused me to scratch the story. It all began last Monday evening ....

“I wonder what Wendy’s doing?” I asked Mama and Daddy while we watched the evening news. Mama shrugged her shoulders as she stretched her feet forward onto a stack of pillows. And Daddy – well, he flared his nostrils and tuned me out by turning up the TV’s volume. Since neither of them knew, or responded, I decided to call my older, unwed sister to get the scoop.

“I have something to show you,” my sister said after we’d exchanged our “hello” and “how are you.”

“Well, I guess I’ll have to wait until I’m invited into your kingdom,” I replied to my somewhat reclusive sister, who hadn’t solicited my visits since last Easter.

“Why don’t you come on over now,” she responded, rallying me forth from my recliner and out the back door.

And so, I set forth for my sister’s abode.

Now, perhaps this is a fitting time to report that my sister now has a “man-friend.” And it was her man-friend who welcomed me at the door that evening.

“So what’s the surprise?” I asked the man-friend as I stepped into my sister’s sanctuary. But neither Wendy, nor the man-friend, needed to reply.

“What the devil!” I bellowed out at the brown beast that loomed above me on the living room wall.

“It’s kind of scary,” Wendy agreed, while we both stared at her latest fashion fixture – a mounted deer’s head.

“I thought you were opposed to hunting!” I reminded my sister. My sister responded only with a smile to the man-friend who’d hung his hunting trophy on her living room wall.

That’s when the man-friend flexed his muscles for us and began to speak of the manly sport of hunting wild beasts. The man-friend told tales of setting up snares and tracking down all sorts of woodland creatures. When he finished, the man-friend beamed at his stuffed trophy – that ol’ buck who’d run out of luck.

As I stared at that decapitated deer’s head hanging above me, I got the ghostly feeling that it was glaring right back at me.

And that’s when I said goodbye.

“What was the big surprise?” Mama asked as I trudged into the Eaves’ homeplace a little later. And so I told Mama of the man-friend and his mounted deer’s head hanging on my sister’s living room wall.

“She doesn’t even agree with hunting!” I scowled, as I sat down at Mama’s kitchen table for a piece of fried cornbread and some sought-after counseling.

Mama explained to me that a “man-friend” can do that sort of thing to a woman. That even my sister’s philosophy on hunting could fade away for the likes of a man-friend.

When I crawled into bed that night, I thought about my sister and the man-friend. And then I thought about that dead deer’s head – and its ghostly, glaring stare that had scared me home that evening.

“Mama?” I hollered from my bed, where I was tucked unusually tight. “Do you have a night light?”


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Like a doe in the headlights sister blinded by affection for man friend

Trip to Tulum leaves much to be treasured

According to Daddy, there’s nothing worth doing outside of Epsom. So when baby sister Audrey announced that she was getting married in Tulum, Mexico, Daddy was caught in quite the quandary.

“Mexico,” he frowned as he lit a cigarette.

For months, Daddy protested Audrey’s plans for a destination wedding. He flat out refused to go.

“I think your father’s afraid to fly,” Mama confided in me one night as we discussed the wedding plans turned disaster.

“He better go,” I replied. “Audrey’s the only daughter he’ll ever marry off.”

Perhaps Daddy realized the ramifications of his wedding day absence. For a few days later, he grudgingly agreed to the Tulum trip.

“I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t,” he conceded, as he closed his eyes for an afternoon nap.

Now, while Daddy dosed up on sedatives for his first flight, another member of the Eaves clan likewise prepared for the international nuptials.

“I can’t stand pale skin!” Granny said as she snagged a can of sunless tanning spray.

And thus began Granny’s pre-trip tanning session. Granny sprayed her fair legs from top to bottom with that can of sunless tanner. And then, she rubbed the quickly drying spray onto her legs. For a grand finale, Granny dried those dyed legs by the fireplace.

“I’ve got this bad habit of not reading instructions,” Granny confessed to our troop of travelers the next day at the airport.”That is, not until I’ve already used something.”

“Granny Virgie!” we all screamed as she showcased a pair of bronzed palms.

“The directions said, ‘Do not rub,’” Granny frowned. “And flammable!”

As my family took flight for Mexico that morning, we thanked the good Lord that Granny’s legs hadn’t burst into flames the night before.

We didn’t reach our resort until nightfall. So, sunrise and excitement were our alarm clocks the next morning.

“Look outside!” I hollered to my best friend, Kris. “Can you believe it’s the middle of December?” I gasped as I pulled our patio door open to a garden of palm trees and yucca plants.

While Kris climbed onto an outdoor hammock, I tiptoed to Mama and Daddy’s room.

“Have you looked outside of your window yet?” I asked a fully dressed Daddy who greeted me with a smile and a cigarette.

“I’ve already been to the beach,” he replied.

While Daddy described the birds he’d seen and the gardens he’d walked, I stared at this man who was suddenly as foreign to me as the country we were visiting.

The rest of the day was filled with similar surprises.

“Where’s Granny Virgie?” I wondered aloud while Kris and I strolled the resort that afternoon.

“Look!” Kris pointed ahead at a nearby balcony where Granny Virgie stood, sipping a strawberry daiquiri and wearing a t-shirt that said, “What happens under the mistletoe stays under the mistletoe.”

“I think Granny Virgie likes the Mexican men,” my older, unwed sister Wendy giggled as we greeted both her and a very tan Granny by the balcony. Granny smiled, and then took another sip of her cocktail.

Meanwhile, some male bonding had begun by a nearby table.

“You’re the son I never had,” Daddy said as he hugged his soon-to-be son-in-law, Justin.

It was then, at that very moment in Tulum, Mexico, that I realized my dad was delirious.

The next day, we all gathered under a Mexican sunset for my baby sister’s wedding. And as my childhood playmate passed from Daddy’s arms one final time as Audrey Denise Eaves, I couldn’t help but cry.

Nor could the bride and groom.

“It was sweat,” Justin later explained to an unconvinced crowd during the reception.

As with all weddings, there are toasts to be shared. But of all that was spoken that night, perhaps Audrey said it best.

“I had my reservations about this destination wedding,” she began as she toasted the wedding travelers under a Mexican full moon. “But this has been such a blessing.”

And for the Eaves family, it certainly was.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Trip to Tulum leaves much to be treasured

Christmas gift shines from the light on a 'silent night'

[This column originally appeared in the Friday, December 18, 2009 edition of The Daily Dispatch. We believe that our readers will enjoy what we hope to make an annual tradition.]

Christmas Moon arrived for her annual visit early on the holiday morn. Bowing to the still Earth — cloaked by the cold breath of Winter — the sliver of Christmas Moon cascaded over the frame of a newly built house surrounded by barren fields.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating this sacred morn with the accompaniment of a host of star-glittering winks.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the infant House, as faint puffs of gray smoke waved greetings from her freshly bricked chimney.

“Tell me, young House,” Christmas Moon said to the structure modeling a coat of fresh white paint, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls anew? What do you see of Christmas this very morn?”

The excitement of the home’s first Christmas beamed from within her timbers. House answered: “I see a father. I see the young man bent before a fireplace, his muscled arms and agile hands kindling a fire to warm his family on this most special of days.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon, smiling on the newborn House. “What else do you see?”

“I see a mother, her nimble fingers sewing the last stitch of a doll’s dress.”

House continued sharing the early morning scene with Christmas Moon — shoeboxes filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts! All goodies the father purchased on the eve of this festive day.

Merriment-filled, House turned to her new friend.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said the infant House. “What do you see?”

Wee-hour darkness already fading as sunrise threatened the silent night, Christmas Moon answered, “I see your youth. As I have seen others in their youth.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as Sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

Christmas Moon disappeared, and House soon felt the quick steps of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

As the seasons passed, House and Christmas Moon reunited early every Christmas morning. And each year, their communion began the same.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, her greeting illuminating a few faded shingles.

“Merry Christmas,” answered the maturing House to her annual visitor.

“Tell me, House,” began Christmas Moon, “what do you see from within your sturdy walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

House answered, “I see a father. His steady hands are building a fire for his visiting children this Christmas morn.”

“Yes. I see this, too,” answered Christmas Moon to her friend. “Tell me, growing House, what else do you see?”

Saddened, House answered, “I see a mother. I see her praying for her son, who is away battling a war in foreign lands. And I see the silent worry on her husband’s face, as he continues to build the fire. “

After a moment of silence, House looked to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” House began. “What do you see?” “I see that you have grown older. Still, I see there are things you have yet to learn.”

Confused, House replied, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun invaded their privacy as he did each holiday, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As the ancient moon disappeared, House felt the quick steps of mother and father, preparing breakfast for their now grown children; those who were present, at least.

The Christmas communions of Moon and House continued as each year passed.

“Merry Christmas,” said Christmas Moon, illuminating the sacred morn over a weathered House clearly showing her age.

“Merry Christmas,” answered House, as faint puffs of grey smoke waved greetings from her chimney, now missing a few bricks.

“Tell me, seasoned House,” said Christmas Moon. “What do you witness from within your great walls? What do you see of Christmas this very morning?”

Excited by this Christmas, House answered, “I see a grandfather. I see the old man, silver-haired and with soft arms building the fire for his children and his grandchildren.”

“Yes. I see, too,” answered Christmas Moon. “What else do you see?”

“I see a grandmother. She’s hanging the final ornaments on a Christmas tree. And she’s wrapping boxes, filled with oranges, apples, raisins and nuts. All goodies the grandfather purchased on the eve of this great day.”

Satisfied with this most festive of morns, House turned to Christmas Moon.

“Tell me, Christmas Moon,” said House. “What is it that you see?”

Darkness quickly fading as sunrise, as always, threatened her peace.

Christmas Moon answered, “I see you have grown older, as I have seen others grow older. And yet, I see you have more to learn.”

Confused, House creaked, “I do not understand.”

And as the sun broke forth, Christmas Moon whispered, “But one day you will.”

As Christmas Moon disappeared, the old House felt the quick step of excited bare feet as they met her chilled floors.

Several years later, Christmas Moon arrived for her annual communion with House, accompanied by glimmering stars who’d long shifted since their first meeting.

But no smoke waved greetings to Christmas Moon. House, her foundation slumped, paint chipped and windowpanes cracked, sat quiet among the barren fields.

“House?” called Christmas Moon.

But House did not answer.

“House,” Christmas Moon called out again. “Tell me, what you have seen? Tell me what you have witnessed within your old walls.”

And with that, House began to cry.

“I have heard the excited shouts of children, whose bare feet met my chilled floors each Christmas morn. I’ve watched these children grow to become parents themselves, and I’ve felt their children’s bare feet on my chilled floors. I’ve seen boxes of oranges, apples, raisins and nuts – handmade presents and homemade feasts. I’ve seen great trees, adorned with lights and ornaments. And I’ve seen them all come, and I’ve seen them all go. I’ve seen a mother and father turn into a grandmother and grandfather. And I’ve seen them go away, too.”

Through tears, House cried, “Tell me, Christmas Moon, tell me what else is there for me to see?”

Christmas Moon bent before House, illuminating her torn-shingled-roof, and began:

“On this very night, many years ago, I saw a young man, in search of a place to rest his wife, who was soon to deliver their first son. I watched as this infant, the Son of God, lay in a manger of hay, worshiped by kings, His promise of peace heralded by Heaven’s angels. I watched as the infant Son of God grew into a man, a healer, deliverer from evil — our Savior. And I’ve cried, as you are now, to see this Savior suffer crucifixion at the hand of man.”

The old House listened.

“I have seen loss, just as have you, ancient House. Yet I have seen the resurrection. I have seen love — the greatest love that grants us reason to celebrate life, despite such sadness.”

At that moment, House comprehended the meaning of this great life – she finally understood Christmas Moon.

And as the darkness faded into sunrise, the fallen House, never before silent on the inside, heard the heavens singing for the first time that Christmas morning. It was the most magnificent of any sound she’d ever heard. Despite the life and beauty that had lived for generations within her once-strong walls, none could match the splendor of this chorus. And suddenly, the house no longer felt old, no longer worn and collapsing. And as House said farewell to Christmas Moon, she joined the angels in singing:

Christ is the Lord;

Let ever, ever praise we;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine;

Noel, Noel;

O night, o night divine.

Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Christmas gift shines from the light on a ‘silent night’

Listen to your own song, Elizabeth

Few topics blaze the headlines these days like the John Edwards political sex scandal — a scandal that has cast his wife, Elizabeth, into a media-blitzed spotlight.

The mere mention of Elizabeth Edwards' name elicits varied reactions, following the release of Andrew Young’s book, “The Politician.” The former top aide to John Edwards not only details the tabloid sex scandal that publicly emerged two years ago — he unflatteringly portrays Elizabeth Edwards alongside her husband.

Despite these recent events, the name Elizabeth Edwards doesn’t evoke such adverse associations within me. Instead, it awakens my memories of an unlikely graduation commencement message that still resonates nearly six years following its delivery.

It was the culmination of my college career — one that had been interrupted midway as I journeyed the railroad tracks of Europe to “discover myself.” And oddly, I had found myself — back home, working to pay off my accrued debt. Such reality had proved unromantic, and so I had returned to college. My parents’ persistent prayers answered, I was finally graduating.

Although thrilling, it was a day permeated by uncertainty. My future seemed somewhat directionless. And as my Peace College classmates and I sweltered in the May morning’s heat, I questioned both what lay ahead and why bathing suits weren’t deemed appropriate attire beneath graduation robes.

I remember fanning myself with a graduation program, periodically flipping its contents for amusement as Elizabeth Edwards approached the podium. The year was 2004, and soon her husband would accept the Democratic Party’s vice presidential nomination following an unsuccessful bid for president.

Her speech was entitled “Listen to Your Own Song.” She said it was a message we would seldom hear. And to date, I have not heard it repeated.

It was not a speech outlined in expectations. No such missive. Conversely, Edwards instructed my classmates and I to ignore the infinite expectations of others and to make our own choices. She charged us not to concern ourselves with the imposed expectations of family, community, nation and world; instead, she charged us to hold tight to our own sense of what was right. And not let go of it. Being true to ourselves, to our ethical core, and to our individual dreams would be our refuge, she said.

That would be our song.

Over the years, I have often discovered Edwards’ charge a difficult one to follow.

Through failed attempts, I have discovered that upholding one’s song is perhaps the greatest test in this life.

Nothing fully prepares one for the moment, if one dares, to halt taking cues from others and instead charge forward for one’s self — thus cultivating one’s own song.

I’ve experienced both pleasure and, more often times disappointment, by pursuing my own song’s rhythm, always influenced by my choices. With each failure, I have learned the necessity of evaluating all choices, and often, to ensure they represent the sort of song worth singing.

The times in my life when I’ve felt “lost” were the times I wasn’t being true to myself, my ethical core, or my individual dreams.

During these times, I believed my song had permanently disappeared — yet was thrilled when the familiar melody eased its way back into the very spirit of my life.

In adverse times, and my own failings, I revisit Edwards’ message — specifically one line that has stuck with me since its delivery:

“Don’t ever be afraid to say that this is not the path I meant to take; I need to get it right; don’t ever be afraid to start over and get it right.”

Edwards’ message, delivered on the front lawn of my alma mater, was the dial of a compass pointing with clarity in one definite direction — within the very spirit of every young woman seated before her.

And as Edwards faces adversities, I hope she will remember the charge she imprinted on the lives of the Peace College class of 2004 —- that she will listen to her own song. Hers. And to not let go of it.


Read more: The Daily Dispatch - Listen to your own song Elizabeth

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