Worst meal of my life

My dad’s Italian, and he comes from a very poor family. He was the first one to go to university, etc. His mum was your stereotypical, hard as nails, Italian wood-gathering widow.

Anyhow, we used to go to Italy every year when I was a kid. This stopped when I turned 18, (as I would have to do nation service). The story I’d like to share is when I was about 8 years old.

Giovanni, my grandmother’s cousin asked me one day if I’d like to come out with him to the rice fields to catch some frogs. Did I ever! A hot, sunny afternoon collecting little amphibians, then releasing them, perhaps a swim in the nearby lake, and if really lucky, a ‘gelato’ on the way home. Life don’t get much sweeter, thought I.

So, we go to this rice field, me on the back of a little Vespa, the wind in my hair, everything smiley. When we get there, I run around like Gerald Durrell, catching my little green friends, showing Giovanni how cute they are, then placing them gently back in their little homes.

“No, no, no,” he says. “When you catch them, give them to me. I put them in this bag.”

BRILLIANT! We’re going to keep them as pets! I can love them, and hug them, and call them George!

So, I carry on. Pick up a frog. Run to Giovanni. Give him the frog. Run away. Catch another frog. And so on.

Now, as the hours pass, I get more and more tired. I’m not quite as lively on my feet. With a frog in my hands, I walk up to Giovanni, hand him my little buddy, and turn away.

“SNAP! SNAP!”

What was that? Turning around I manage to catch Giovanni breaking this little frog’s legs. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING!?!” I scream. “I do this to stop them hopping away,” he replies, completely nonplussed.

Well that’s it, I’m hysterical. Unable to calm me down, Giovanni chucks me on the back of his bike and we go home; me crying uncontrollably all the way. When we get back, I run into the bedroom and cry non-stop for an hour. Eventually I stop blubbering, and walk out into the garden to see………… my grandmother cutting the heads off these frogs and peeling off their skin.

So. Back in the bedroom, feeling the worst I’ve ever felt in my life. Tears coursing down my cheeks in a flood. I remain in there until my dad comes in and tells me it’s dinner time. “B-b-b-b-but I don’t want any d-d-dinner! My little f-f-f-friend f-f-f-f-frogs were… WAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!”

“You are coming out of your room, and you are going to eat your dinner,” my dad informs me. Just for a moment, imagine your dad was a bit like Tony Soprano, and you were 8 years old…….

I went out of my room to eat my dinner

And what was I served up? You guessed it. Frog omelette. And I had to eat the whole fucking thing.

So that was my worst meal: best friends washed down with mouthfuls of 8-year-old tear claret. I learned a valuable lesson that day, but I’ll be fucked if I know what it was.

Maybe, one day, I’ll hear the silence of the frogs….
(geegee, Thu 4 May 2006, 10:11, Reply)