was first introduced to ham hocks when I was 16. Boiling in an industrial strength pot, I was expected to serve them to an incoming crowd of famished college students. Ham hocks, for the blissfully unaware, are pig's feet, cut off at the ankles.		I'm not sure what really did it. Perhaps it was the bits of bone, protruding out of the former ankles. Or maybe it was the smell of it all, reeking like only boiled pig can. Or maybe it was just the thought of all those footless pigs tripping around some barnyard somewhere. I don't know what it was, but something pushed me over the edge – way over the edge.
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