“They Eat Snails Over There Too”

Sometimes me and Ralphie would go out and try to gig us some frogs. We’d head off down the road to Saline Creek or to a pond we knew about. We were after bull frogs. We took our shoes off and snuck along like Indians. When we got close enough we’d stand up, take aim and throw our spears. Once in a while we’d connect but the commotion would send the other frogs leapin’ into the water. So we waited. Sometimes they’d crawl back on the bank and we’d get another shot. The most we ever got was 5. We headed home just thrilled. Some old men were sittin’ in the yard with grampa when we got there. They came over to look at our bucket of frogs. “That’s a delicacy over in Paris, France,” they said, “a real delicacy.” We weren’t sure what they were talkin’ about. They didn’t taste like a delicacy to us. They didn’t even taste like frogs. They tasted like chicken and that’s the only reason we liked em.