there was always talk about food even as his father jerked us up into the hilltops in a cj-7. we were off deer hunting. they, al and adam hoped for a buck with a rack this size of mae west’s. i was to observe. we got to the ranch at eleven. the sun was hot at twenty three hundred feet, most wild life snoozed in deep shade and the best we could do was shoot frogs for a frog leg lunch. me, i had not even ever held a gun, let alone pulled the trigger, certainly not to aim a 22 with telescopular vision at a fat bull frog croaking his lily pad swan song. i had to. on account of what i told of ana, a seven year old from my past new york life; she who had spied on the menu of the four seasons an offer of frog-legs and demian, noble maĆ®tre d’ that he was, placed her request and her year older brother freaked and the order arrived and, just like chicken we all said, as we tasted, except her brother who turned up his nose howling ouoouoh, intensely sucking the straw of his pepsi.
story pledged, having a gun pressed to my shoulder, i pulled the trigger and bagged the frog and pan-fried his legs in sweet butter alongside those shot by adam and his father.
twenty four legs all counting.