Bravery beyond belief

This weekend I committed an act of awesome bravery. I ate chickens' feet.

In considering whether what I did was brave on an international scale, I asked that no-nonsense oracle, Sir Internet.

A quick search under the keywords "act of bravery" reveals the top three entries to be questions of finance, suicide and the name of a movie.

Nothing here seemed apt so I narrowed my search to include only pages from New Zealand.

Here, I found information about bravery medals which sounded far more appealing because I've got a couple of spare lapels ready for decorating.

But horror! You can earn the New Zealand Cross for "acts of great bravery in situations of extreme danger", but there is no category for "act of unflinching courage in the face of unfamiliar cuisine".

And so, to the audacious act of swallowing poultry feet.

I've spent a good proportion of my life hoping that the "chicken feet" advertised on menus of Chinese restaurants is actually the nickname given to a dish made from strips of courgette plaited to give the appearance of a claw, or tofu moulded into the shape of talons.

In this case, the Chinese may have minced pork but they have not minced words.

My dining partner asked if I would eat chickens' feet. I said I'd give it a go. The key was not to look too closely, he said.

It's hard to know where to put the apostrophe in this dish. I ate two of the little delicacies but did they come from one chicken or have I eaten one foot each of two chickens?

The odds of having a left and right foot from the same bird is surely astronomical so I suppose I chewed the toes of two birds.

Chickens' feet are difficult to swallow in both the physical and metaphorical sense. You can still see the little ridges of skin, although they are declawed. The texture is soft and fatty - but here's the kicker (if you'll excuse the pun) you have to bite, suck and then swill everything around your mouth with your tongue to collect all the little bones in a pile.

And then spit out a crowd of tiny metatarsals on to a plate. Repeat until you've had enough. Which for me was two.

Is there anything as brave as a big set of Pakeha tastebuds swilling chickens' feet?

Of course the most distasteful thing around our table was my misplaced sense of pride. I couldn't stop at one foot, I went for a second bite of the cherry, partly out of curiosity but mainly so as not to appear rude - which was ridiculous considering I had already admitted I wasn't so keen on a dish made simply with rice and water.

So if I'm unlikely to win a bravery award for spitting metatarsals, I'm going to have to nominate myself in other chicken-related bravery categories.

In the same week, I have come into close contact with one of the most chicken- pocked kids you will ever see. The poor wee mite has to do some pretty sweet smiling and eye-glinting to remind me that underneath his face, which looks like a science project, he is still the same gorgeous little boy he always was.

I have covered my garden with bags of new dirt, which no doubt contains chicken poo. I did this without gloves, despite all health warnings and I've been sleeping under a feather-filled duvet in this hot weather. All of the above are no poultry feets, I mean feats, so please, excuse me, I'll be out checking my mailbox for medals.

- © Fairfax NZ News