Chickens Have Two Feet

Today two of my host siblings were at school and my other brother got a job for the week three hours away and so for lunch it was my parents and I. One of my goals for this semester is to say yes to anything that won’t end in death or a perm. This has gotten me to see an Ecuadorian movie, get my nails painted on a street corner, lung myself into a waterfall, rock climb a water fall, go to a bull run, listen to Spanish metal, and see a parade of horses. This applies to food as well; I also am willing to try about anything that my host mom eats. Having seen traditional Mexican food come in and out of my state-side mom’s kitchen, I can handle most things and appreciate them. With this I try to keep an open mind.

My host mom is an exceptional cook and baker, she keeps telling me it’s because she puts extra love in it just for me. Anyway, today my mom made the best chicken soup of my life-- it was raining and our electricity had gone out and all we had was this bowl full of her love in the form of rice and cilantro and at the same time it was all we needed. I happily savored every mouth watering spoonful until I noticed to the left of my bowl a sharp toe nail peaking out of a nearby plate, it was a chickens foot, not the drumstick thigh but the foot, toe nails and all. I had finished my soup and decided to pass the foot to my father who smiled and said that this soup was made especially for me. That’s when she told me that chickens only have two feet with the mischievous twinkle in her eye. I couldn’t help but laugh.  Without hesitation my mom began to teach me how to eat a chicken’s foot. First you need to rip of the smallest toe first, nibble. Repeat for every toe after. Always save the ankle for last, because it’s the best part. During my attempt of rib, nibble, chew, swallow, repeat my wonderful mom told me I was eating cartilage. I remained calm noting that it tasted like chicken.  

It should be said that feet are not very cute to eat, there rather messy and sticky. Think spaghetti minus the fork and knife plus a grossness factor multiplied by lip smacking crunching noises. All this in mind picture my mom happily nibbling and chewing her way through the other foot. My dad had insisted that she eat the other foot because he knew how good they were. My father looked at my mom with such love when all I saw was toe nails and cartilage that I realized perhaps true love is eating a chicken’s foot and still being seen as beautiful. True love does not envy over delicious chicken feet but enjoys it through the delight of another. It’s in moments this I began to recognize that perhaps love can come in spoonfuls of rice and cilantro. I’d like to think that when God made chickens He made them with two feet just for my mom.