bag of frogs

In the circuit of restaurants I stop at during the week for evening take-home dinner is a hole-in-the-wall, alley place specializing in pickled fish and other seafood dishes.  There are not many tables but it’s always noisy.  In the dumpy area where the live fish are kept there is almost always a bag of frogs.  They are kept in an empty aquarium directly under the fish and other sea creatures.

Pre-GV I had a Japanese-American girlfriend who had a phobia about frogs.  Even if she saw a picture of a frog in a magazine she’d let out a short yelp and quickly turn the page. She was fairly normal (stable) otherwise, but for sure she would not be able to get close to these amphibians nor visit this restaurant because of them.  Most people like frogs so it was a peculiar fear.

Anyhow, unfazed by the noise with not a croak to be heard, these frogs just sit in their net bag, piled on top of one another, eyes wide open.  They don’t move around and appear fairly content.  If I’m reading frog facial expressions correctly, it’s like they are resigned to their known destiny.

a bag of frogs, awaiting patiently their fate

a bag of frogs, awaiting patiently their fate

I don’t know whether to feel sorry for them or not.  If I did, then where would the “sorry for the animal being trapped” feeling end?  Virtually everything we eat, meat-wise, is a trapped animal.

The menu is written in Chinese so I don’t know which are the frog dishes, but one of these times I’ll work up the nerve to point to them while making an eating motion and see what happens.  When I do, my frog sense is that whichever ones are selected,  if even for a few seconds, might feel liberated from being bagged.

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