It's two a.m. Do you know where your toes are?
My toes are sending frequent updates and protests. They are unhappy. Their working conditions are poor. Their luxury bonuses are not making headlines. They don't care that this corporate executive needs to get some sleep.
My ancestors ate pickled pigs' feet. This gave me some heebie-jeebies as a child. It gives me greater concern now that my toes are so old and vociferous in the middle of the night. Each phalangial knuckle has an opinion. At two a.m. I am open to the idea of consigning the whole bunch of complaining toes to a crock of brine so I can get some sleep.
Like most teachers, I have explained to children that the Plains Indians used every part of the buffalo. Did the Sioux make pickled bison feet?
Dad says pickled pigs' feet were mostly gristle and fat with a little bit of meat. "A tasty oddity; better than head cheese or blood sausage," he remembers.
© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder