Pickled Pigs Feet

People tell me I have a heightened sense of smell. My olfactory glands must be directly connected to my memory, because smelling specific scents springs memories to mind. And I think people are correct - I think I do have a powerful sniffer.
That's a good thing. And a bad thing. It's an especially bad thing when cooking something that just down right stinks.
Such as pickled pigs feet. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I have never, nor will I ever, dine on any sort of foot. No offense, but it just doesn't appeal to me one bit. Toe jam just isn't a flavor I'm up for experiencing.
But Jasen's grandfather, Buddy, loves pickled pigs feet. It's important to understand that this man lived in a home with a dirt floor when he was a child. It was during the Great Depression, and the family hid their chickens under the house so people wouldn't steal them. He ate turnips every night. Pickled pigs feet were a treat.
Pickled pigs feet are not easy to come by. I searched three grocery stores, and never found any. I did, however, find uncooked feet at Food Lion one day a few years back. For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to cook Buddy a big pot of pickled pigs feet.
Yes, it was a sweet idea. But smart, absolutely not. The feet take hours to pickle. And you have to skim scum off of the top of the water every few minutes. Not to mention you actually have to handle a pigs foot.
But those issues pale in comparison to the smell. The smell singes your nose hairs. It creeps through the air, and before you know it has completely invaded your home.
The problem is that the smell invades so slowly that I didn't notice. Plus it was winter, and therefore I didn't think to open a window or door. My sister stopped by for a visit.
My sister doesn't share my olfactory gift. She does, however, posses a fairly strong gag reflex. She dry-heaved for half an hour before we went outside. Once we came back in, I dry-heaved for three days before the stink left.
I'll never cook pigs feet again. Believe it or not, Harris Teeter carries the feet pre-pickled. And so, every few weeks I pick up a jar, vow to the teenager ringing my order that I've never have and never will eat them, and surprise Buddy. He says they're not as tasty as my batch, but I'm thinking that's just too bad. My nose just can't take another pickling session with a swine's toe jam.