Ma Ingalls Would be Ashamed of Me

I’m a work in progress. I’ve come so far from my city girl roots. Like, really far. But I'm not kidding myself—I’ve still got a loooong road ahead.

Last night, we had dinner at our friends’ place. They served homemade chicken noodle soup made with chickens they raised and butchered themselves (insert link to our butchering adventure here) and hand-rolled sourdough noodles (insert recipe link because yum). While I was helping prep the noodles, their young daughter was telling me all about how she helped make the chicken broth.

And then came the part I’ll never un-hear.

Apparently, the secret to nutrient-rich, collagen-loaded broth involves chicken feet. This little girl peeled said chicken feet and yanked out the toenails before plopping them in the broth. She was so unphased as she described it—I swear she could have won the Homestead Helper of the Year award. And honestly, I wanted to match her energy. I wanted to be excited about the health benefits, the collagen, the traditional cooking methods. But no. Nope. My brain got stuck somewhere between “peeling” and “toenails,” and it never recovered.

To be clear, the feet were no longer in the soup—they’d been fed to the dogs, who very much enjoyed them. But all I could picture was this adorable little girl casually peeling the scaly skin off a chicken foot like it was a banana and ripping out the toenails—a true pedicure of horror.

I politely dished myself a (small) bowl and ate as much as I could, but I was fighting a full mental gag reel the entire time. The soup was good. The noodles were delicious. But the ghost of those chicken feet haunted every bite.

I couldn’t help but feel like I failed some kind of Homesteader 101 exam. Surely real

homesteaders aren’t phased by a few feet in the stockpot. But here I am—grossed out and

a little ashamed, still trying to level up from “city girl who owns chickens” to “full-blown Ma Ingalls.”

Someday I’ll get there. Today is just not that day. 🐓🦶😬