That's a little hard to swallow

I have never been squeamish when it comes to what I put in my mouth.

I will eat anything - and any part of anything. Brain, liver, tongue, stomach - all is good - when cooked right of course. But I must admit to failing in further stretching of my gastronomic wings. My parents are visiting me at the moment for the festive season, and I wanted to take them out to lunch yesterday. In very non-yuletide style, I took them for Yum Cha, where I had previously dined with my Mother. The feature dish to impress my Father, who is known for his iron constitution, was to be Chicken Feet.

The dish presented itself midway through our repast. The lid of the steamer was lifted to present four delicately spiced aforementioned appendages. My Father eagerly dove and retrieved his foot. I also reached forth eagerly and grabbed a portion for myself. To our great surprise, my Mother also helped herself to one.

My Father devoured his and praised the heavens for such a morsel of flavour. I looked at my plate and inspected the foot. Up until this point, I was just as eager to try something new. But as I looked at it, I realised that it looked far too, well, "foot-like" for my taste. I could imagine the feet clawing the ground - each phalange prominent and looking very much like it would rather be scraping some seed, than being shoved unceremoniously in my mouth. I paused.

I looked up to see my Mother opposite me, taking her foot, and pretending to stroke her face with it in a manner of some affection. She then proceeded to savour each part of the foot. Sucking on the toes (a la Fergie), and lingering over the lower leg.

It was all too much. I passed the foot to my father, and took another serve of rice.

Alas, I have finally found my epicurean limits.