I feel bad for telling this story about my own mother.
My mother had a farm girls taste in food. When I was very young in the mid 1960’s I have this memory: Mom would sit down by herself in the kitchen for a “gourmet meal” of buttermilk, limburger cheese and pickled pigs feet. It was the smell of the cheese wafting through the house that would make us (perhaps it was just me) complain. I wish I had been a bit more tolerant of my mothers sense of taste. But for a six year old polite tolerance is a bridge too far.
My Chech-Slovak, grandmother had a recipe for pigs feet, but it was basic, vinegar, water, salt, pepper, pigs feet boiled until the liquid becomes gelatinous and cooled into a jello like substance.
The pigs feet were free {or very cheap} so it was a big hit among the poor honkys from central europe [which we were, on my Dad's side}.
My Mother's folks were Sicilian, and even though one uncle was shot to death, my Mother disavowed the Black Hand.
The Italian side added garlic and olive oil to their version of pigs feet. My preference was without garlic.
I was about five or six when I first tasted Roquefort. An older friend of the family was having some for dessert and I was the inquisitive kind of girl asking him what it tasted like. He offered me a small amount on a cracker but told me to pinch my nose so I couldn’t smell it and I would like it. So I did and I’ve loved the Bleu cheeses ever since. I also like pickled pigs feet, an excellent source of collagen, but prefer the French bleu cheeses to the English kind. I enjoy a wide variety of cuisines and often try “new” things. Most recently was Kangaroo.