Back in the 60s before I was old enough to get a “real “ job, I worked for our neighbor who was a farmer. Whenever dinner time came the farmer loaded all of us “field hands” into the back of the pickups and took us to the store. ( Dinner is what meal you ate at noon. It sounds strange that supper is now called dinner)
I always got a can of Vienna sausage and cheese crackers or maybe a bologna sandwich made by the store owner. The rest of the “crew” all had pickled pigs feet from a gallon jar on the counter. The store owner fished them out of the jar with tongs and laid them on a sheet of waxed paper.
Me and the “crew” all sat around outside in the shade eating dinner. I can still see those guys knawing and sucking on those pig feet. I tried a taste only once and that was enough.
