Scared of my soup

I like to make chicken stock from scratch, letting it simmer for a whole day while the house fills with its delicious smell. Chicken feet are supposed to make soup broth nutritious and tasty, so when we had our own birds processed, I requested that the feet be saved. There they were when I went to pick up my chickens – about 90 chicken feet divided between two clear plastic bags.

It was not obvious what I should do with them next. Popping them in the freezer would not work because they were tangled together in a frozen mass, and I would never be able to extricate a few feet to throw my soup. I decided to let one bag thaw, to wash the feet, and then divide them into more manageable portions before putting them back in the freezer. The second bag could wait until later.

Washing the chicken feet was one of the creepiest jobs I’ve ever done in my life. Instead of being bright yellow, as they were when my chickens were alive, these feet were a pale fleshy color, not too different from the color of my own hands. In fact, they looked very much like human hands, complete with fleshy palms, except they had sharp, bird-like claws and only three digits. The claws were daunting. I heard that a friend of mine clipped nails off his chicken feet before throwing them in the stock, but after that experience, he decided that he could make fine stock without feet.

Each foot was amazingly expressive. They were frozen in evocative gestures, and being the daughter of actors I found myself analyzing the emotional impact of each shape and wondering how a performer might use it. Some feet gracefully fanned their toes out like a dancer’s hands, but more of them had pensive shapes, with the toes drawn together yet reaching purposefully. One toe pointed backwards on the last joint, and I shuddered to think that in spite of my good intentions and gentle handling, one of my chickens suffered a broken toe on its last journey. As I held each foot under running water and slid my thumbs over every rise and crevice to remove the dirt, I was performing an intensely personal ritual. Each foot reproached me.

Now the chicken feet have been in my freezer for more than three months. I add some to my crockpot whenever I make chicken broth, but I am grateful that we no longer have a clear top for that pot. When I have peeked under the metal lid, I have seen the feet float to the top and occasionally roll around there, stirred by the bubbling water. I feel like I am in the presence of something ancient and not altogether friendly. I replace the lid and let the broth simmer until feet have released their nutrients and lost their shape.

The broth is absolutely delicious. It tastes too nurturing to have been bought with money. But when my family and I eat that broth for dinner, I know that by eating, am taking part in a mysterious spiritual act.