by Ruth
What we like to eat has a lot to do with our childhood environment. When I was growing up, food wasn’t abundant. We lived by two food groups: 1) edible, and 2) negotiable if you add enough soy sauce. We ate what was available. And “available” wore many names: sweet potato leaves, chicken backs, and yes, pig feet.
Meanwhile, my better half grew up in what I lovingly call a boneless, skinless childhood. Skin was removed from pork. Grapes should be seedless. Fish didn’t arrive with faces. To him, it’s unthinkable that people would eat pig feet. To be fair, to me it was unthinkable not to.
This difference shows up most clearly at our church potlucks. Somewhere between the suspiciously neon Jell-O salad and the deviled eggs is my braised pig feet that made me church-. They’re glossy, tender, and savory in the way that makes people close their eyes and hum an old hymn. I slow-cook them until the meat yields like it has finally surrendered all its secrets, and the sauce is thick enough to coat a spoon and most of your life choices.
Our friends line up for them.. There’s always someone who takes two servings, then stands nearby, like a pig foot might leap into his plate if he just maintains eye contact. Many even request my recipe, which, in our tradition, is encoded in vague units like “a splash,” “a handful,” and “until it smells right.”
And then there’s my husband, Pastor Ken, the kindest man on earth who will pray for you, arrive early to set up tables, carry your casserole, and also never—not once, not even on a dare—put a single bite of pig foot into his mouth. He adores that others love it. And he will happily eat a burger from McDonald’s。But pig feet? Unthinkable.
One night at fellowship, a newcomer cleaned his plate, then went back for seconds like he’d discovered a secret menu. He finally found us and, with genuine delight, said, “Pastor Ken, you are so blessed to have this wonderful dish of pig feet at home and can eat as much as you wish.”
My better half winked and responded, “My wife never cooks it at home.” He smiled, the way a man smiles when he finds himself seated at a surprise testimony service, and said, “I’m blessed indeed.” He didn’t mention his personal vow of pig-foot abstinence.
This is the wild thing about food: it’s not just sustenance, it’s autobiography. Your plate is a map of where you came from. Some of us were raised on convenience foods and schedules, some on leftovers and inventive reinterpretation. In my family, we were pioneers before sustainability was cool. Every part of every animal had a plan and a purpose, like a very resourceful youth group. You learned the alchemy of slow cooking and the art of flavor-lifting. We didn’t call it “nose-to-tail dining.” We called it dinner.
When I married Pastor Ken, I discovered another truth: marriage is cross-cultural, even if your passports say the same country. One person’s comfort food is another person’s episode of survivor. He grew up with pork chop that did not touch the bone and roast chicken that did not remind you a chicken once had wings. I grew up with food that told stories: the cut my mom swore made her hair shiny, the soup my grandma promised would fix heartbreak, the sauce that required patience and a certain stern look.
(Please come back next week for Part 2)
