Waterloo Part Deux

Okay so this morning, like the little pompous French general I am (actually only half French, and actually taller than most everyone here- another major self esteem booster), I arrived early to school (I think it is the new bike- cuts a 10 minute ride to 5) went straight to my morning battle with the covered dish fully expecting to win, as always (even the chicken foot did go down...mostly), but alas. I was ignobly out maneuvered and outflanked by these lovely pig's feet. And Caitlin Hynes thinks med school is demanding! It wasn't enough that they were cold. It wasn't just that the odd, brown-colored sauce looked like it would be much more at home in a yellowing jar labeled "Varnish-purchased 1965".  I might even have been able to somehow push aside the rather, ahem, hairier bits and find some nice smoked ham hock to nibble on. No, the kicker was the cloyingly smell of the sweet soup, reeking of sugar and cinnamon. Thank god I was alone at the table. I didn't even manage a single bite. I almost gagged on the smell alone. I snuck a few pieces, by flicking them with the spoon you see there, to a wandering bitch whose dugs were practically dragging in the dirt. I ate my rice up (mmm plain white rice with nothing), recovered the dish (which turned up again at lunch, mercifully accompanied by several other dishes), and slid it into the kitchen. I had been revealed, at least to myself, as the poseur my critics suspected. I am not making excuses, but maybe, maybe if they had the decency to give me a shot or two of the 120 proof rice whiskey to go with it I would have gotten some down. But I doubt it. It finally met its match at the eager chops (in the eager chops?) of 4 of my ten year old female students, who, all weighed together might equal my 170 lbs. Where is the culinary equivalent of Elba anyway?