Knife-Fork-Spoon

On Pickled Pigs Feet and Cheddar Cheese

Another holiday season has come and gone. Funny how fast it seems to come and just how quickly it’s over. I’ve loved reading posts about family celebrations, and, of course, it’s made me remember mine. We’ve never been particularly close, but it didn’t stop us from enjoying the holidays.

Our holiday celebration was usually low key. My father worked as much overtime as he could at his job and then worked odd jobs to supplement his income. We didn’t have a lot of extras, but his hard work made certain that we had food on the table and a roof over our head. There was always a Christmas tree, usually a wreath of some kind, and assorted holiday statues placed around the house.

And presents. There were always lots of presents under the tree. Though there were presents from my brother and I to our parents, as well as all of our presents for relatives we’d see on Christmas Day, most of the gifts were for us. My parents tried to spend the same on both of us, and they made sure each of us had the same number of gifts under the tree. Sometimes, that meant wrapping a couple of gifts in one package, but my parents didn’t want it to seem as though they were playing favorites.

When it comes to presents, I mostly mean my mom. She was in charge of choosing, getting, and wrapping most of the presents that would come from her and my father. After all, Dad was busy working. When he wasn’t working at his full-time job or an odd job, he spent hours in the garage, tinkering on one thing or another. Family time centered mostly around meals and Sunday trips to my paternal grandparents’ house. I had friends whose fathers were more involved in family time, but that wasn’t our family. And there was seldom any overt signs of affection–you know, hugs and kisses–between my parents and my brother and I. It wasn’t a matter of whether our family was the way we wanted it to be, it’s just the way it was.

One Christmas there were 2 extra gifts under the tree. My mother said she had no idea what they were. My brother and I kept close tabs on what gifts were under the tree from the first night the tree went up. And, in all honesty, I became quite adept at opening and reclosing packages; there were few surprises for me when we gathered to open gifts. My brother and I were certain those 2 gifts had not been there the last time we had investigated. I knew that I hadn’t had a chance to perform my clandestine package surgery on the one marked “To Ida from Santa.”

As we settled in to unwrap presents that particular Christmas Eve, my father told us to leave those 2 packages for last. So, we opened all the others (and I acted appropriately surprised). We got most of what we wanted, and we knew that when we awoke the next morning, the “real” gifts–the major gifts–would be there from Santa. Finally, it was time for the mystery gifts. My brother and I tore into the packages and there they were: a bottle of pickled pigs feet for my brother and a package of cheddar cheese for me.

These might seem like odd gifts to you. OK, they would probably seem like odd gifts to anyone. But in truth, these were very special gifts, though it took me several years to realize just how special they were. My mother was not an imaginative cook. She’s gotten more experimental over the past few years, but when we were all at home, meals were pretty plain. My dad knew what he liked, and that’s what she fixed. Hamburgers, hotdogs, beans, and chicken were mainstays on the menu. And usually fixed only one or two ways. Canned soup was the usual lunch, but she would occasionally make a big pot of chili or what we called “gunk,” which was actually vegetable soup. We didn’t have pizza at home until I was in my early teens. And then, my father put butter on his. (No, I can’t explain it.)

When it came to treats, special foods, there weren’t a lot. But my dad loved his pickled pigs feet. This was an attraction he passed along to my brother. Though I tried them and liked the pickled flavor, I just couldn’t get past the fact that they were pigs feet. They were kind of expensive, and since my father and brother were the only ones who ate them, Mom didn’t buy them very often.

My culinary guilty pleasure at the time was cheddar cheese. Now, that might sound strange to you, after all, it’s not exactly an exotic cheese. To my family, however, cheese was either Velveeta, faux American cheese that came individually wrapped, or hunks of longhorn. There was also the occasional can of Parmesean cheese. One of my father’s handyman clients gave him a box of assorted cheeses one Christmas. I was in cheese lover heaven. My favorite was the cheddar, and happily, none of the others liked it. But, since it was just me, and it was expensive compared with the other varieties, the only time I had it was when someone else served it.

So, why were the gifts of pickled pigs feet and cheddar cheese so special? They were things we loved but rarely had. It meant Dad was paying attention to us. (We sometimes wondered, as he seldom called us by our names, just nicknames only he used.) There was real thought put into those gifts. It’s odd, but I have absolutely no recollection of what else we received that year. But the thrill of the pickled pigs feet and cheddar cheese is as intense today as it was then.

My father died 12 years ago, during the holiday season. And though we were never really close–especially during the last several years of his life–I smile when I remember that one particular Christmas. For at least that one moment, we shared, we were close, there was love.