Want a taste?

DEEP FRIED FROGS LEGS

 

Every other Sunday is 'treat nite out.' Dad and Mom take Carrie, Jean and me to dinner. They alternate who picks the place. Each time it's Dad's turn, I eat little and make a sandwich when we get home. He's a tryer. I am content with McDonald's, ham, turkey, cheese, a steak now and then. Dad has declared tonight as 'Seafood Special.' That's all I had to hear and have to think up a way to look and feel sick, maybe stick my finger down my throat and vomit. 'Patty, My, Boy. Don't try any of your tricks on me. The Fish Bowl has a big selection of all kinds of seafood. You'll find something you love and will ask me to bring you again. You'll see.'  Dad was right. I can't fool him. I am trapped. 

 

The Fish Bowl has a huge sign on its roof. Blue and yellow lights blink on and off which makes it seem the painted fish of all weird varieties are swimming. A tall plastic Captain Hook stands near the entrance. A fake croc, its jaws open wide, is ready to gobble down Hook. Dad acts like a child, pets the stupid blown up croc. Neither I or Mom laugh.

 

We are given a nice large table, plenty of room for all of us. Carrie and Jean are given crayons and paper place mats to color the octopi, sharks, sea snakes, electric  eels. Carrie is cute. She scribbles green over all the creatures. I ask her what fish is that big and all green and she calls me a dummy. 'That's not fish. It's sea weed, Patty.' Mom orders stuffed trout and it is served before Dad makes his selection. The trout is served on a big platter. It's head is still attached. It's black lifeless eyes still bulge. How did the cook stuff the trout without slitting it open. Oh, god, I think. He couldn't have stuffed it down trouts open mouth while it was still living, could he? Mom offers us each a taste of her fabulous trout but has no takers.

 

Dad, having been studying the huge menu until Mom finishes her trout, calls over our waitress, points at what he wants. I still have not even thought about selecting anything, get the idea to order one Maryland crab cake, broiled, lots of fries and one corn on the cob. A light goes on in my brain when I realize what crabs eat–dead people. I hide my crab cake under some of my fries. Dad's dish comes and it looks pretty good. 'What is that, Dad?' I ask. 'Just chicken fingers, Son. Want a taste?' 'Dad, this place doesn't serve chicken and besides, chicken's don't have fingers.' He ignores me and digs in. He won't stop bothering me until I give in and taste one finger and am surprised it is chicken–and very tasty too. Mom looks delighted that I like Dad's choice. She wipes her chin and asks me how I really liked the frogs' legs.' I stop dead and get a sick feeling in my stomach. I almost cry to him, 'Dad, what did you give me? He asks what's wrong. 'You enjoyed them, didn't you? That's really all that matters.' I am so angry, I can't argue with him, almost run to the men's booth and throw up in the toilet.

 

When I gather my wits and my insides, Dad who is as bright as a burned out fire cracker, asks me if I want to go frog hunting next week. 'If you can manage to kiss one of the jumping toads, it might turn into a fairy princess. Come on, Son, let's try it.' I beg off, explain I am not interested in having a frog princess in my life and would like to just go home.

 

Two weeks later I feel something strange on two of my fingers. They don't hurt but are growing so fast, I can almost see them rising. I call in a panic, 'Ma, Ma, look I have warts on my hands from those darn frogs. Get them off of me, Ma.'

 

Ma winks and apologizes. She can't remove them. They grow back. 'Don't fret, don't worry. You are darn lucky. You should see where Dad's warts are.'