Pickled Pigs' Feet

Something I haven't thought about for many years. Until a couple of months ago, when I saw jars of same in the "Hispanic" foods section of the market. (Grocery store to you, market to me.)

And so now, of course, I want some. I haven't bought any, because the jars are big. But I'm thinking about it.

It's my dad. He liked pickled pigs' feet, and he said, as he said many times, "Try it. It's good. You'll like it." Or words similar. Often he said, "It's good for you." But I don't know if he could have said that about pigs' feet. Anyway, I tried it, and I liked it.

Not like tongue. Yuck. Still have a hard time with that, not that you could find tongue at any meat counter I've seen lately.

Oysters. I wouldn't dream of eating one then. My mother always said Daddy liked to eat them raw so they could crawl down his throat. Crawl, I think, was the wrong word. Slide would have been more like it. But she said crawl, and it sounded right to me, the little girl who also never dreamed that when she grew up she would like oysters. Raw, even.

I don't know if any of the other kids, my siblings, liked pickled pigs' feet. I mean, it sounds like something you're not supposed to eat--the feet of pigs. And I wonder if they, the feet of pigs, would be as good today as I would want them to be.

Know what I mean?

Oh Daddy. I may have to find out.