Frog Legs For Lunch
The sweat in my Chicago Bulls t-shirt could no longer evaporate from my pre-pubescent body. We had just hiked what seemed like 100 miles across overgrown farm fields and dusty yellowish-white dirt roads. Marching to the tune of pre-teen bickering, we kept a steady pace to get to a pond we knew was nearby. The sticky summer air at that Randolph County farm pond made the neckline and sleeves of my shirt sag with malodorous moisture. We loved exploring ponds and creeks because it always seemed like their mystery usually resulted in adventure and today, we had a plan. We were going to be hunters and eat what we killed.
We made our way down the steep wooded banks on the side of the trail to get to the water. The pond was in the absolute lowest spot in the woods and once we were level with it, it felt like we were almost in a pit surrounded by towering trees. The briars and brambles blocked most of our entry and exit points, funneling us to the only clearing on the opposite end. Every step was taken with the caution of a mine sweeper, just in case there were snakes. Although we weren’t afraid of catching them, we weren’t too keen on them catching us first.
The fetid mud along the pond’s edge sucked at our shins and shoes as we slogged along to get to the far bank. Shawn, my younger brother, was armed with a secondhand Daisy BB gun, while our friend Nathan and I had fishing rods equipped with the very best in black rubber worm technology. Our Pawpaw always told us that if you couldn’t catch a fish with a regular black rubber worm, you weren’t a good fisherman. It seemed appropriate that we’d apply that same rationale to fooling frogs onto our bait. We had seen bullfrogs eat earthworms before and surmised that if we used the lure right, we could trick them into taking a bite.
The plan was to cast the fake worms along the ponds edge and jig it along the bank. Bull frogs would theoretically be enticed to reveal their position long enough for Shawn to get off a pop shot. This, of course, was only theory at this point and we still had to prove our skills as “hunters.” Since Shawn was the best marksman in the group, and could emotionally detach from any situation, he held the honor of anuran executioner. Shawn also didn’t cry when he killed frogs, unlike his older brother. I guess you could say I’ve always been a big softie, especially when it comes to animals. There have been moments when peer pressure and a sense of adventure trumped my bleeding heart, and this was one of those occasions.
I wanted us to be successful about as much as I wanted us not to kill any frogs. I love frogs, always have. I also was a boy raised in the Southeast, and back then entertainment took on many forms. We weren’t planning on just wantonly killing frogs. We planned to eat them. That was our justification for the aquatic assault at least. The first few casts showed movements in the grass along the muddy water’s edge. This at least proved our plan was getting the attention of those meaty marsh boys. With each cast, the rustling in the brush got closer and closer to the open shallow area we were dragging the worms. Then it happened.
The fourth or fifth cast yielded a bold male bull frog as he excitedly jumped towards the black worm. The bullfrog paused when we stopped reeling the worm. He inched closer to the lure and just as he was about to pounce on his prey, Shawn took aim. Before the frog could realize grave mealtime miscalculation, a .177 mm steel projectile took flight. The bb drifted across the thick air and smacked him right behind the eyes. He didn’t know what hit him. We repeated the process several more times until we had enough frogs for lunch. We didn’t want to be greedy and we knew it was a rule at Nathan’s house that if we killed something we had to eat it. We saw where these frogs lived and didn’t want to take too many, just in case they tasted like the swamp smelled.
The challenge for us proved not so much in executing targets, but in amphibian acquisition. We had to wade a few feet past the edge of that stinky swamp pond to where the frogs were slain. They laid in full surrender with tongues and arms outstretched, as if to say “I hope your meal is worth it.” It seemed a shame to waste such a beautifully awkward looking animal for just a few hunks of meat attached to their hind legs. We had heard people say that a frog’s legs would almost dance in the frying pan, and we wanted to verify that notion. After throwing five or six lifeless frogs into a stained floral patterned pillow case, we made our trek back to Nathan’s house. His house was somewhere through the woods about a mile or two, maybe 100 miles. We walked for what felt like days, again.
When we got to the house Nathan’s dad got a cleaver, and with six heavy chops he produced twelve frog legs fit to be fried. After washing them thoroughly in the sink, he covered them in flour and poured a heavy-handed amount of vegetable oil into the skillet. The three of us were now accomplished hunters feeding the tribe. We watched with excited curiosity as those legs kicked and moved in the pan. They were definitely not dancing. It was more like a slow death march to a beat that satisfied our culinary curiosity. They were fried a golden brown and tasted exactly like chicken. Everything does. I still haven’t figured that one out. A swamp frog seasoned and fried satisfies the same place on my taste buds as chicken cooked in a similar manner. Go figure. That was the first and last time I ever ate frog legs.