The Last Frog I Ever Ate

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 toward 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 their mystery almost always led to 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 off the side of the trail to reach the water. The pond was in the absolute lowest spot in the woods, and once we leveled with it, it felt like we were standing in a pit surrounded by towering trees. Briars and brambles blocked most of the entry and exit points, funneling us toward a single clearing on the far end. Every step was taken with the caution of a minesweeper, just in case there were snakes. We weren’t afraid of catching them, but 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 to the far bank. Shawn, my younger brother, carried a secondhand Daisy BB gun, while our friend Nathan and I had fishing rods equipped with the very best in black rubber worm technology. Pawpaw always said that if you couldn’t catch a fish with a regular black rubber worm, you weren’t much of a fisherman. It seemed appropriate to apply that same logic to frogs. We’d seen bullfrogs eat earthworms before and figured if we worked the lure right, we could trick them into taking a bite.

The plan was simple: cast the fake worms along the pond’s edge and jig them across the bank. The bullfrogs would reveal their positions long enough for Shawn to take a shot. In theory, anyway. Since Shawn was the best marksman and could emotionally detach from the situation, he was our designated executioner. Unlike me, he didn’t cry when he killed frogs. I’ve always been a softie, especially when it comes to animals. Still, there have been moments when peer pressure and the pull of adventure trumped my bleeding heart. 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. But I was also a boy raised in the Southeast, where entertainment came in many forms. We weren’t planning to kill frogs just for sport—we were going to eat them. That was our justification, at least.

The first few casts stirred movements in the grass along the muddy water’s edge, proof that our plan was working. With each cast, the rustling drew closer to the shallow open area where we dragged the worms. Then it happened.

On the fourth or fifth cast, a bold male bullfrog jumped toward the lure. He paused, inching closer, and just as he was about to strike, Shawn took aim. Before the frog could realize his mealtime miscalculation, a .177 mm steel projectile smacked him right behind the eyes. He never knew what hit him.

We repeated the process until we had enough frogs for lunch. We didn’t want to be greedy. Nathan’s house had a rule: if you killed something, you had to eat it. Besides, we didn’t want to deplete the frogs too heavily, just in case they tasted like the swamp smelled.

The real challenge wasn’t in hitting the targets but in retrieving them. We waded into the stinking pond to collect our prey. The frogs lay limp, tongues and arms outstretched as if to say, “I hope your meal is worth it.” It seemed a shame to waste such awkwardly beautiful creatures for only a few hunks of meat from their hind legs. But we’d heard people say the legs would dance in the frying pan, and we wanted to see for ourselves.

After stuffing five or six lifeless frogs into a stained floral pillowcase, we trekked back to Nathan’s house. It was only a mile or two through the woods, but after the long day it felt like 100 miles again.

When we arrived, Nathan’s dad grabbed a cleaver. With six heavy chops, he produced twelve frog legs ready to fry. After washing them thoroughly, he coated them in flour and poured a generous amount of vegetable oil into the skillet.

We were now accomplished hunters feeding the tribe. With eager eyes, we watched as the legs twitched and kicked in the pan. They weren’t dancing—it was more like a slow death march to a rhythm that satisfied our culinary curiosity. Soon they turned golden brown.

They tasted exactly like chicken. Everything does, somehow. A swamp frog, seasoned and fried, landed on the same place on my taste buds as a chicken leg cooked the same way. Go figure.

That was the first and last time I ever ate frog legs.

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Stan Lake is a writer, photographer, and filmmaker currently living in Bethania, North Carolina with his wife Jess and their house full of animals. He split his time growing up between chasing wildlife and screaming on stages in hardcore bands you’ve never heard of. He has been published by Dead Reckoning Collective, The Havok Journal, Reptiles Magazine, Lethal Minds Journal, and many others. He filmed and directed a documentary called “Hammer Down” about his 2005 deployment in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom in with Alpha Battery 5-113^th of the NC Army National Guard. You can find his books, collected works, and social media accounts at www.stanlakecreates.com

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.