This morning I started working on another blog post. Then we went to lunch and everything changed. The initial post is still in progress and should be coming shortly, but in the meantime there transpired an event that takes precedence--one that makes the hamburger I ate last night for Fourth of July taste even better in my memory than it already did.
Today, I ate a chicken foot.
It was consumed totally in ignorance, mind you, being the deceptively fried and breaded chicken foot that it was. Actually, it wasn't even consumed.
Because there's nothing to eat on a chicken foot. Because chickens don't have any meat on their feet. Claws aren't made of meat. They're made of, well, claw.
I began to question the true nature of this "piece of meat" when the tip poked at my tongue and the sensation was immediately different than just a sharp bone. Then, with what was I'm sure a face or growing surprise and shock, I followed the claw with my tongue all the way up the two "toes" to the joint.
And then I realized what was happening.
And, disregarding all cultural norms and throwing all cultural sensitivity to the wind, I spit it out because I literally couldn't chew it. Because, let me remind you, it was a freakin' CLAW disguised in breading as decent, edible meat.
Now, imagine my even greater surprise when everyone else's plates did not have any uneaten or spit-out chicken claws. These are people whom I'd watched take pieces from the same plate as I had.
I've taken everything else here really well, I promise. So call me ethnocentric or insensitive or disrespectful or simply influenced by patriotism and love of America from last night. But this time, I'd like to think they're just great at hiding chicken feet in their napkins and under their plates.
Then again, hiding it proved just as much a feat as eating it would be, so I must commend them either way.
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