After all these years, I still enjoy certain foods that I enjoyed when just a youngster. Soup beans, cornbread and a thick-sliced bologna sandwich still find their way to my menu on a regular basis. But one thing I didn’t like then, and still don’t care for today, is frog legs.
Older boys in the neighborhood would rig up gigs, a large nail driven into the end of a broomstick and flattened by placing it on a T-rail and pounding it with a hammer. A few who enjoyed the sport more frequently even had those three-prong, store-bought ones, and spent all night frog gigging. Then, I’d hear tales about what a fine mess of frog legs their moms had fried up and how they tasted just like chicken -- only better. I’d just take their word for it because, to my knowledge, I never tasted one.