I’m home! I’m home! And you didn’t even know I was gone. 3,500 miles, a variety of motel rooms, only two substantial fines (I hate Kansas), no breakdowns, and a meal of stuffed crab and frog legs.
I’ll explain the meal. You know I’m a steak guy. Roast beef and potatoes. Corn or green beans. A loaf of bread. Salad is optional. It’s just something to do while the meat is being cooked. To me, variety in cuisine is deciding between medium and medium rare. And the funny thing is, I don’t gain any weight. Some of my cruel friends would suggest that is because I already weigh three-hundred-pounds, and am like a yield-grade-five steer. I just can’t gain any more. Real close friends would just appreciate my wonderful metabolism. To me, a diet is Diet Coke in my whiskey. That’s enough.
Anyway, I’m staying in a motel in Tyler, Texas. Not because I’m supposed to be in Tyler. I’m lost and checked into a room for the night. But that’s another story. After driving all day, I’m ready for a walk. So I walk down the street to find a steak house. Maybe a rib joint. I’m not averse to eating a good barbecue.
But as I walked along, I came to this seafood place. I mean it was a real seafood place. Not one where the “catch of the day” was caught somewhere in a faraway ocean, frozen, and flown 3,000 miles. Really, in the Dakotas, if you want the “catch of the day,” it had better be walleye, or they’re lying to you.
So I go into this seafood place and start eyeing the menu. You know, I don’t really care for seafood. Oh, salmon is good once in awhile. Pickled herring on crackers is a wonderful snack. A tuna fish sandwich is all right. Walleye in beer batter is as good as it gets. I don’t know if I’ve had red snapper. Guess I had shark once. Octopus. Crab legs are not worth the effort. Just drink the melted butter and save a lot of work.
But then, again, when in Rome…
So I peruse the menu, and decide tonight I’m doing something different. Something I can tell my grandkids about when I call them later. So I ordered the stuffed crab and the frog legs. What grandkid in North Dakota won’t be impressed when Grandpa is eating frog legs!
People always tell you that frog legs taste like chicken. I would suggest they taste more like rubber fried in a nice breading. The breading was pretty good. The texture of frog legs leaves a lot to be desired. But I cleaned them up, and hopped on over to the motel to call the grandkids.
I reached four-year-old Evan on the phone, and asked him to guess what I had for supper. When I told him frog legs, he just handed the phone to his dad and said, “Grandpa wants to talk about yucky stuff!” He’s smart for a Meyer kid.
Kids seem to know more than me on a lot of days.
Gracy, my nine-year-old cowgirl granddaughter came in to her mother the other day, after Carm had sent her out to the deep freeze to bring some meat in for supper. Gracy came in with a worried look on her face. “Mom,” she asked, “Are we rednecks if all we have in the freezer is meat and a pumpkin pie?”
Nope, Gracy. You’re ranchers!
I’ve got to hop out and do chores!