GIGGIN'

East Texas stock ponds are a natural breeding ground for bull frogs (rana catesbeiana). As bull frogs are extremely proficient leapers, wits have often speculated that if they had wings, they wouldn't bust their butts when they landed. They also employ a loud guttural bellow like bulls when advertising their mating call or to make predators think they are larger.

Some folks think the legs of the frogs are an exquisite dining experience when they are battered and lightly fried.

To capture said frogs for culinary uses, one would need to go out at night (dark moonless nights were the best). Mr. frog's hunting style is to more or less just sit and wait until something eatable comes along that will fit in his mouth. Therefore, they are usually found on the bank of a pond at the water's edge.

While on a nocturnal safari for flipper drumsticks, you use a flashlight to shine around and try to see the reflection of the frog's eyes to locate them. After being located, the idea is to "sneak" up on the frog and "gig" them.

A "gig" is a metal device that resembles a set of claws. The claws can be pulled apart to a locked position, and then slammed together by the force of a spring when shoved against a frog. If successful, this holds the frog in the gig until the "hunter" can transfer the delicacy to a sack or other temporary storage.

Dad and I would on occasion decide it was time to pursue the ever elusive quarry (usually after consumption of some not so elusive Budweiser). We would make the rounds of the neighborhood ponds while kicking aside the water moccasins.

It never failed that we would be tempted (remember the alcohol imbibement) to "gig" a water moccasin. Neat trick, except now we would have several pounds of an extremely agitated fang poppin' critter stuck in the jaws of our frog collection devices. Gettin' them puppies ungigged was always the special treat of the evening.

If we had a boat, the ole ranch hand preferred to sit in the front of the boat and catch the frogs by hand (more sport, more fear - remember the ever present snakes - and so more adrenalin rush)(OK, likely preceded by a Budweiser "rush").

Baby Sister tells a story bout going with Dad one hooched up night and having the flashlight grow dim due to battery failure. Dad being Dad, he just threw their only light into the middle of the pond. Dad/daughter then had the privilege of negotiating through the night critters in the pitch dark back to the house?

The day after a successful harvest of web foot water denizens, we would painstakingly prepare the feast. I'd take Mom's old black iron skillet and carefully ease the crisco (lard) toward the perfect sauteing temperature as the miniature drumsticks languished luxuriously in flour and seasoning. I would then delicately slide the critters' knee bone connected calf/thigh into the bubbling grease spa and gently bring them to a golden brown.

An anomaly of frog fryin' is that while achieving cooked status, the severed limbs will for a spell, "jump". I reckon it is the nerves in the appendage that makes it kick, but it is a bit unnerving when ya first see the phenomenon?

Anywho, our wildlife prize would be a beautiful sight to behold when plated artfully on our least chipped platter.

Then the eyeballin' would start. Dad would look at me, I would look at Dad, an Dad would look back. Who was gonna start gnawin' on them suckers first? We would chew a bit (and sometimes swaller). The trouble was that as we masticated the appendages, we were rememberin' the entire acquatic creature with its green spotted skin, baleful eyes, and long sticky red tongue?

Realizin' that some huntin' pleasures were heavier on the "pursuit" side and lighter on the "consumption" side, we would usually resolve to not go giggin' again (but then the Budweiser would cleverly numb our memory/judgement and we would once again launch a night time foray for fun and country groceries)?