Fair of the Frog Legs

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Frog legs.

A strange delicacy of a foreign taste.

To my mother, it was akin to the chicken nuggets in the Philippines: satisfying to the crunch.

It conjured the image of a frog trapped by its own mucous on a porcelain plate. An invisible force stripped the creature's green coat to expose its breaded flesh. The frog screeched as floating jaws formed a bite mark on the thigh of its leg leg.

High in front are the twin masseters playing catch with the torn piece until it disappeared down the jaws. A satisfied noise sounded in the ambience causing the fidgeting of the skeletal toes to die down.

The existence of frog legs remained a continent away from where I live. Never are they found in the local market, my mom claimed long ago.

But will they be found in my local fair?

Their colorful flags flapping to the summer wind above the grand entrance hinted of the fairground's "delectable heart."

The flashy stalls boasting a questionable food gallery did not fit the cryptic phrase. Nor are the slumbering rides letting its victims roam their playground before the sun galvanizes the machines awake.

Unfortunately, I had a schedule created by my class to follow by the time afternoon debuts.

So, my search was delayed at a train museum where titanic trains welcomed us with their intimidating armor. While I fascinated myself by their mechanical hearts, my wallet confessed little interest towards these antique beasts. I stepped down the steel stairs of a yellow diesel locomotive to identify the problem.

My wallet preferred to hunt for the frog legs than stay in this silent yard. I admit that I have little passion for trains like my classmates investigating from afar.

Then came the adults' calls to venture into a humid greenhouse filled with a fantastical display straight out of a fairy tale. Jungle plants surrounded us as we walk down a winding path created by smooth rocks mashed together. Flowing rivers followed our feet and a chorus of frogs croaked for us.

I turned to the noise to make an apology of the sin we are about to commit against their species.

The chorus ceased and I immediately escaped out of the greenhouse, leaving a fearful, but awkward note behind.

I found myself climbing up to a mountainous labyrinth where dinosaurs lurked at corners. The rocky slopes began to wear us out, but I kept my focus on the search for frog legs.

As wishful as my thinking was, and because amphibians have lived longer than the dinosaurs, I believed there was a stall deep within this elevated forest that sold the mysterious food.

Instead, I spammed photographs at every dinosaur showing off their reptilian features from behind the hills. Zero frog legs and ancient amphibians were found in this sculpted mountain.

Scaling down the maze, I headed to the motorsports museum located in a spherical plaza. The building housed cars that ruled the streets over the years since the mid-20th century. Televisions displaying archival footage of stock cars speeding down race tracks hanged on retro walls and the evolution of race suits were demonstrated in glass cabinets.

There was a lone stock car resting in the middle of a quadrilateral room. One of my classmates got in and put themselves into the shoes of a professional racer. Later, I took their place and rotated the car's steering wheel amateurishly. I felt cramped by its walls and squeezed out of the lifeless vehicle.

Exiting back outside, I found myself at a different side of the museum. I was in a spherical plaza surrounded by tents enriching visitors with caricatures and rolling food carts with appetizing smells. A cluster of tents selling unidentified goodies hid behind palm trees far from where I was, and rectangular posters illustrating the fair's attractions were stuck on neighboring buildings.

The area appeared to match the description of the fair's "delectable heart." So, I searched the plaza for their stall. I observe visitors converse about nearby attractions and snack on fair treats held by their fists.

None talked about my objective.

But I stopped on my tracks when my nose picked up a sizzling smell.

I followed it to a red booth whose mouth unleashed a large volume of smoke. I fanned it away from my eyes to reveal a menu item that my mom mentioned back home: frog legs!

Grabbing my wallet, I rushed to the booth. Its owner caught sight of me and awaited my order: I instantly requested frog legs and he turned his back to me to prepare the food.

It took a boiling symphony and clapping tongs for a frilled tray decorated by red stripes lining vertically to land on my hands.

Stripped of its natural coat as expected, but the frog legs weren't brown, nor rough like chicken nuggets. Rather, the coat revealed flabby cream-white flesh that hardened to the toes. They didn't move, which would have freaked me out otherwise.

Regardless, I paced to a table clothed in a checkered pattern and pulled a white chair over. Sitting down, I excitedly took a bite of the thigh.

And stopped chewing.

I internally cursed my mother for the appetizing illusion to be destroyed by the slimy, but bland reality of the frog legs.

"Are you gonna eat those?"

My mind snapped back to a classmate who witnessed my frozen state. "No," I frowned.

"Can I have it?"

I slid the tray to them. My classmate thanked me and finished it as quickly as my alternate self would.

My stomach growled: what the heck will I eat now?

The crap my school gave to me for lunch?

Or the fair's eccentric food?

I watch some of my classmates rummaging their lunch bags for bologna sandwiches prepared by our school. Their taste doesn't trigger a happy belly.

Alas, I cannot leave my group to go far even though permission is expressed.

It's better than nothing, my mom always said.

Without hesitation, I listened to her voice miles away.