Alive and Croaking

One of the coolest things about living in Florida, if you're a nature girl like me, are the frogs and toads. The croakers thrive in my 'hood, and I hear them, en masse, every evening and early morning. Because the sound can get so overwhelming--like millions of crickets quacking--I thought this cute "little" guy pictured to the left HAD to be one of many singing out in the woods behind my house. But he's not; this Goliath is in Cameroon or something, worrying about things that go grrrrr in the night, including the two-legged African plaidypuss. Heh. No, my house is situated among entire colonies of small-fries. They hop along beside me when I venture outside. It's kinda cool.

Recently, Mom and I went to brunch at the Speckled Butterbean, a really cute spot with all manner of rooster decor. The place offers home cooking and an all-you-can-eat buffet with the usual fare of potatoes, veggies, and frog legs.

Er, what?!

Yeah, frog legs. Lots of them. Just look at their little bodies, severed in half, muscular legs intact, dusted in cornmeal and deep fried and tossed into a vat with their little cracks staring up at you. Appetizing?

I could only imagine the ones in my back yard, calling to each other in their nightly revelry, ignorant of the dangers and just happy to be alive and croaking. Kind of like teenagers, warts and all.

I told myself, Be adventurous. Be brave. For god's sake, you eat chicken legs, don't you? You've eaten rattler and buffalo balls before. Just try it! So, I picked up the tongs and helped myself to amphibious dark meat.

As I set it on my plate, I recalled the frog legs Dad served up when I was a very young, impressionable kid. Back then, I only took a nibble, because after watching Dad swing the little froggy by its webbed feet and smacking its head on a boulder, my big girl panties dissolved into diapers. Yeah, thanks Dad. I'm only traumatized for the rest of my life, but, er, yum.

So here's the little guy on my plate with the brisket and peas and sweet potatoes, surrounded by gingham. His little legs look like they're in mid-jump, don't they? And his itty bitty hiney is staring up at me. Like the lower half of a Ken doll I once knew.

Perhaps I'm a closet vegetarian.

Anyway, I felt bad for the little guy's demise and that his sacrifice had been in vain. But I could not eat him, could not be the indiscriminate carnivore I was raised to be. People, my flesh-eating proclivities had been swamped by a small-fry that croaked.
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