Green Garlic (for girls only)

The other day I discovered a Friday farmer’s market in Echo Park. I guess I did not so much discover it as much as my friend, and blogger extraordinaire, Diana took me there.

The market opens at 3:00 on Friday; a very odd time for a farmer’s market. But it was soon made clear to me that it was the BEST time for a farmer’s market. You see, at 3:00 most people are still working and as a result the market is not overrun with people as are the neighboring Silverlake and Hollywood markets during their hours on the weekends. However, there are still enough people present that people watching remains an option as you scarf down a handmade blue-corn quesadilla or a rotisserie chicken from the chicken truck guy. And as it is in Echo Park, the people watching is still top notch.

While any of you that have read my blogs know, I am all about meat. So what you are about to read may shock you. Should you find yourself at the Echo Park farmer’s market ordering a blue-corn quesadilla, opt for the mushroom before the chorizo. I know, I feel every bit as blasphemous writing it dear reader as you do reading it, but trust me on this one. While the chorizo quesadilla still delivers everything one could want with spicy pork blended with melted cheese, topped with homemade salsa and wrapped in hearty blue-corn goodness, the mushrooms used by the quesadilla lady are thick, perfectly sautéed, plentiful and just too good to pass up.

But this blog is not about mushroom quesadillas. It is about something much more serious. It is about sexism! Sexism and garlic! More specifically, green garlic (pictured above).

Let me explain.

After examining the various booths at the Echo Park farmer’s market, Diana and I decided that one stand in particular stood out from the rest. The stand had the most beautiful red leaf lettuce and Swiss chard I have ever seen in all my days of perusing farmer’s markets. Purple kale so vibrant and fresh that I was forced to put my sunglasses back on (Who are we kidding, this is LA so I never took them off to begin with. But you get the point).

Diana and I stuffed our bags full of veggies. I was very happy and my mind filled with excited anticipation of how I would prepare all of these vegetables over the next few days. I planned to feast like a vegetarian (if that was even possible to do) week in and week out all thanks to this wonderful man and his Echo Park farmer’s market vegetable stand.

As visions of broccolini with ginger and oyster sauce danced in my head, I stood patiently in line behind my friend as she settled up with the proprietor; a seemingly very nice man who made eye contact when he spoke and did his best to be overtly friendly. After Diana paid him, the man reached down and pulled out a gorgeous stem of green garlic. It was enormous and beautiful and best of all, FREE! He handed it to Diana and informed her she was to eat the entire thing, roots and all. To do anything else, he assured her would be a waste.

Wow, I thought. This could be no better. Great vegetables and free green garlic to boot make for a very good score. With that, the cheery gentleman turned his attention to me and my bag of fresh goodies. Again, he was very friendly and gave me great deals on vegetables that would even justify paying Whole Foods’ ridiculous prices for them. I then handed over some cash and waited…and waited…and waited….until finally the farmer moved on to the next person in line.

But where was my green garlic? I smiled. I was friendly. Why didn’t I get any green garlic?

Perplexed, I walked with Diana to get a slice of pizza from another booth. While she ordered I took a seat at a table and that is when I learned the glory of the mushroom quesadilla mentioned above. In fact, had it not been so wonderful, I think my mood would have even soured the chorizo quesadilla, until now a feat I thought impossible for anyone or anything to accomplish. But as I chomped away I observed something that shocked me to the core; the farmer was giving other customers free green garlic! I was appalled! Why not me?! That’s when I noticed something else: the farmer was only giving green garlic to girls! Not one single male received as much as a second glance.

I understand the whole concept of “Ladies Night” at bars. I understand Moms getting a free corsage at Mother’s Day brunches. I get it. But this was no special event or marketing ploy, oh no, this was sexism at its finest. I am a white male! I am supposed to get everything! Life is easy street for me and my kind. Why not green garlic? Was this the beginning of something greater I thought? Was my elite status no longer enough to secure everything I need and want in life? Would all females soon start getting free vegetables at farmer’s markets? Next time, would ovaries equal free oranges? Or boobies, bananas? What’s a guy gotta do for an eggplant? This was an eye-opening experience that I would rather not have.

Apparently, Diana noticed my sadness at being excluded from the giving of the green garlic. Whether it was the sadness in my eyes or my 10 minutes of complaining/whining, I cannot be sure. But she did notice. And being the friend she is, she handed me her green garlic. Instantly I was taken back to childhood and when a bank teller would pacify me with a lollipop so my mom could finish her business. Guess things really haven’t changed much.

I will go back to the Echo Park Farmer’s Market today. I will give the farmer one more chance to offer me free green garlic. And should he do it, I will accept with a smile and all will be forgotten. After all, green garlic is plucked from garlic fields to give other garlic bulbs more time to grow and develop. So really, it’s just kind of a weed as far as farmers are concerned. But it is a weed I covet.

Because the green garlic was so fresh I wanted to taste it with little else to overpower it. So heeding the farmers call to eat the entire thing, I took it home, chopped it up, slathered a loaf of French bread with butter and freshly grated Parmesan, topped it with green garlic and some crushed red pepper, slid it under the broiler and in a matter of minutes was crunching on one of the best pieces of garlic bread mankind has ever known.

Maybe the farmer will read this blog and realize the error of his ways. If not, sexism will live on at the Echo Park Farmer’s Market and I will be forced to pay for my green garlic.

Oh well.

***UPDATE***
I returned to the same vendor a few weeks later and I was given my green garlic. However, I did not return the favor to Diana and indeed kept my garlic for myself.

Dealing

We all deal with grief in our own way. Red meat and haiku are my personal vices of choice.

This was the result of yesterday's grieving upon realizing that CBS would not be broadcasting any of the North Carolina basketball game on the west coast.

UNC's not on
I made hamburgers instead
Happy once again

Mom, Why Are There No Easter Eggs This Year? Or: How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love The Rabbit

It doesn’t take too much driving around the southeastern United States on a fall Saturday afternoon before one comes across a church, school or volunteer fire department having a fundraiser. The fundraisers are easy to spot, as usually there is a…well, there’s a sign. And that sign usually reads something like, “Brunswick stew $4 a quart.”

Should one miss the sign, a group of people standing around a voluminous cauldron taking turns stirring its contents with a large wooden paddle is another sure-fire sign that someone is trying to raise some money (however, should they be dropping dead bats and kitten tails into the pot, you have probably stumbled across a witching ceremony and it is best to continue down the road). At the very least, it is a sign that folks are about to partake in some good eatin’ and you should try to sweet talk your way into the party.

Brunswick stew is a popular fundraising food because it is fairly simple to make, it’s filling, with a little going a long way and because it is really good stuff. People in the southeast consider it a comfort food and buy the stuff up by the gallon; usually buying a quart or two for immediate consumption and a couple of more to stash away in the freezer for the next snowy day.

Brunswick stew is best eaten with a column of saltines and a bottle of your favorite hot sauce. And though it is a relatively low-fat food, it will fill your belly for the rest of the day.

But what exactly is it?

Brunswick stew is similar to a very thick vegetable soup, with meat. It is cooked slowly over a small fire and stirred constantly for hours until all flavors meld together. Stews usually contain corn, butterbeans, potatoes, onions and stewed tomatoes. Most people usually use chicken, pork and sometimes stew beef when making this delicious regional dish (the region, however, is still not precisely defined as Brunswick County VA and Brunswick, GA each make a claim to being the namesake). Regardless of the meat used, I’ve yet to taste one that is less than phenomenal.

However, it was not until the other day that I tasted one that was authentic. You see, old timers will tell you that a true Brunswick stew contains small game animals such as squirrel or rabbit. While one can find about most anything one wants in Los Angeles, squirrel is not one of those things. I suppose I could have shot my own, but the city tends to frown upon civilians walking around parks with hunting rifles. So I opted for rabbit.

I had never cooked rabbit before. Not because I had an ethical problem with it, but rather because it just never seemed all that appealing. You see, fat equals flavor. Rabbits live on vegetables and exercise daily which results in a very lean meat. And if I wanted tasteless meat, I would eat free-range, grass-fed beef (For the record, I don’t support inhumane treatment to animals…unless, of course, it makes them taste significantly better). But I was cooking my annual southern feast and everything must be authentic. So in the words of Elmer Fudd, “Kill the wabbit, kill the wabbit.”

But where could I find a cute and cuddly bunny rabbit that was ready to eat? Actually, I was not opposed to gutting and skinning one myself just to say I did it. In fact, after a little help from the World Wide Web, not only was I prepared to disembowel one of the fuzzy creatures myself, I was ready to try my hand against the best of ‘em. I had visions of catching a rabbit with my bare hands, breaking its tasty little neck and hanging its dried out ears from my rearview mirror as a warning to all other rabbits who dared cross my path. The one problem was that I could not find one. There were a few at the pet store, but I decided that would only be my last resort.

Eventually, I found the above beauty frozen in my favorite butcher shop. And I guess that was for the best. After terrorizing a few pre-schoolers with inappropriate Easter bunny jokes, I made my way home where I chopped up Bugs and threw him in my pot along with my veggies and everyone’s favorite bird, the chicken. Although I was forced to cook my stew on the stovetop, instead of on a small fire outdoors (the same city that frowns on shooting squirrels also frowns on building cooking fires on the sidewalks. I thought CA was supposed to be sooooo liberal?), the end result still looked and smelled similar to the stew I knew and loved as a child. But how would it taste? I was concerned that the rabbit might lend a gamey flavor to my stew. Then what would I do? It’s kind of hard to flush 19 liters of stew down the toilet (not to mention I’m sure CA has some kind of law against it). So I held my breath and tried it. Not too bad. Not gamey at all. In fact, it taste just like…well, we all know what it taste like because every meat seems to taste like this. Yes, friends, my rabbit tasted just like chicken.

Nonetheless, I was proud to help keep alive a dying tradition of using small game meat in Brunswick stew. Even if rabbit did cost me $5 more per pound than chicken, the experience was worth it. But now that I have done it, look for all future stews made by yours truly to contain 100% domesticated meat.

Puppy anyone?

Squirm

I know the video is small, but it’s the best I had since a still photo really wouldn’t do this story justice. Do read on to understand.

The building was certainly unassuming enough. Just another windowless, hole-in-the-wall nestled in a corner under a white sign with blue lettering in the heart of Los Angeles’s Koreatown beckoning for those in the know to stop by for a meal.

If one was truly in the know, one might be aware that this was one of the oldest Korean restaurants in Los Angeles. And then one might give it a second glance. If one was observant, one might notice the name ‘Masan Restaurant’ spelled out in English underneath the same name written in a much larger Korean font. If one was a little intuitive, one might reason that unlike the neighboring restaurants whose signs bore no English at all, that this restaurant may well have become sought out by those other than the immediate Korean speaking community. And again one might give it a second glance. Most others would simply pass by, on their way to stuff their faces with all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ, not knowing the jewel they were overlooking.

Nothing against all-you-can-eat Korean BBQ, but that is another blog for another day.

Inside Masan patrons are given menus and sat at tables with doorbells on the wall. The table doorbell is quite possibly the best restaurant invention since the fork. Ready for your order to be taken? Ring the doorbell. Need another beer? Ring the doorbell. Ready for the check? Ding-dong. But at Masan, once you ring that doorbell, you better be ready to point to your order as English is spoken at a minimum here. If you are lucky, you speak Korean and have nothing to worry about. If you’re even luckier, you’ve gone with someone else who speaks it and all you have to do is sit back and enjoy.

Upon figuring out that continually pressing the doorbell is not nearly as much fun for your server as it is for you, one is left with only two real options. Option 1; go look at the fish tanks in the front of the restaurant. Or Option 2; look at the menu. Seeing as how the menu is in front of you and the fish tanks are a full 8 paces away, a glance at the menu is usually the logical progression.

Next up in this progression is to look around the room, back down at the menu, around the room again and then back to the menu. You see, all dishes at Masan are priced above $20. While this is Los Angeles and overpriced menus are nothing out of the norm, one cannot help but feel a little confusion when coupling these kinds of prices with Masan’s ambiance that is created by fluorescent lighting and Korean beer posters.

But Masan is full of the unexpected.

It was mentioned a couple of paragraphs up that Masan is best navigated with a Korean speaker. I was lucky enough to have such a speaker in my group. But as was mentioned even earlier, English is on the sign in front for a reason. Without it, non-Korean speakers would not flock here. But it is and they do. And while the servers may not know much English, they do understand at least 3 words. And those words are, “Live octopus, please.”

I knew what I was getting myself into, for I had been searching out a place to try this dish for over a year. However, the extent to which I was getting into it caught me completely off guard.
I was not expecting an entire octopus as depicted in the movie “Old Boy”. I was expecting a couple of tentacles served still moving and possibly on a bed of rice.

Nope and nope.

Imagine an average size plate completely covered with gray and white tentacles chopped up and squirming around (think chopped up slugs). That’s what we got.

The best way to relate to what was going on before me was to think of earthworms. I’m sure most all of us as children either ripped apart a worm, or watched an older brother do so, just to watch the multiple parts wiggle around as if living separate lives. The main difference was that those earthworms never made it to the dinner table. These tentacles were also much thicker than the quintessential fishing bait…and they had suction cups. The main similarity was that these guys, like the mutilated earth worms, did not want to be around curious humans and were going to fight ‘til the bitter end.

Moving like inch worms, a few tentacles wasted no time making a break for it by inching their way off the plate. In a moment of complete and utter sadism, I found it quite entertaining to let them get to the cusp of freedom at the edge of the table before seizing them between my chopsticks and returning them to the pile where they would await their dismal fate.

While the rogue tentacles were easy to pick up, due to them having exhausted most of their energy on their plight for freedom, the others knew what was in store and reserved their energy for the final battle. If chopsticks weren’t tricky enough to use, try using them on something that really doesn’t want them used on it in the first place. The tentacles would contract making themselves appear very small. Perhaps the tentacles had the anti-survivor of the fittest mentality; they thought that the big guys would go first. And they were right. However, some of the smallest tentacles, once trapped between two skinny pieces of wood, elongated and thrashed wildly to avoid what was now the inevitable…or at least what this opposing thumbed mammal thought would be the inevitable. You see the fight does not culminate once the tentacle has been grasped between chopsticks, rather it continues until gastric juices finally win out deep inside the stomach (and even then I think there is probably still a “Toxic Avenger” like tentacle in my stomach waiting for the just right moment to rise again). Once in the mouth, tentacles hold onto anything and everything they can to prevent becoming part of the food chain. Immediately, the first tentacle I placed in my mouth sucked onto the inside of my cheek and refused to let go. Not knowing how to react, I fought back, trying all the while not to think of the leaches scene in “Stand By Me.”

Alas, the invertebrate was no match for years of training put in by my molars which had honed their destructive skills on much tougher competition like beef jerky…and public school lunches.

Eating food that doesn’t go down without a fight is one way to thoroughly appreciate a meal. It creates a sense of primal accomplishment by making a person feel as if the playing field was a little more even during this dining experience (I'm pretty sure no one is holding out for free-range octopus after eating a plate of the stuff). One’s pride may even swell a little knowing that yet again the two legger was victorious. Try getting that feeling with an apple Danish.

For those who consider the true sign of a more advanced creature to be an intelligent brain opposed to brute mouth strength, Masan supplies sesame oil. When doused with oil those suction cups don’t stand a chance.

In the end, the three of us cleaned the plate. The octopus and 2 large beers came out to a total of $38 which wasn’t too bad. But considering we followed that up with 6 tacos, 2 tostadas, al pastor nachos and pitcher of beer from a taco stand down the street, for only $25, live octopus isn’t the most economical choice to fill your belly. While it is a worthwhile cultural experience to have, I compare it to being on the plane that crashed in the Hudson; it’s a lot of fun to say you did it, but you don’t really care to do it again.

Oh, but how did they taste you may ask? Imagine having the flu and hocking up a cold, aggressive loogie that you just can’t seem to spit out of your mouth. That about sums it up.

Try it for yourself at Masan Restaurant located at 2851 W. Olympic Ave.

It Is Not Wrong to Be In Love With The Sardine

Eric B and Rakim may have said it best in their song, ‘Paid In Full,’

“Fish, which is my favorite dish
But without no money it's still a wish.”

But fear no more as these bad boys pictured cost only about $1.19 per pound (only they come with the meat still on the skeleton)!

These are fresh sardines. Many may remember sardines as stinky, oily fish in a can that less than comforting old-timers used to munch on back in the day. Well, they are. But they were not always that way. Before that creepy old man who talks to himself outside the liquor store while dropping them in his toothless mouth got his hands on them, they were part of much larger schools swimming around in the ocean.

Today, fresh sardines can be found on many restaurant menus and cost a lot more than the canned version. But that is when they are prepared for you. Preparing them yourself results is a cheap, healthy and satisfying meal.

Contrary to popular belief, sardines do not stink. Like any fresh fish, if they smell, then they are old and should be avoided. They are, however, oily. Not as oily as those that get come from a can full o’ oil, but oily in the good way that makes them packed full of Omega 3 fatty acids which help to lower cholesterol and blood pressure. They also contain iron, magnesium, phosphorus, potassium, zinc, copper B vitamins and calcium. In fact, 3oz of sardines contain the same amount of calcium as an 8oz glass of milk!

In addition to the goodness they contain, it’s also what they do not contain that makes them even healthier. Since they are small and low on the food chain, sardines contain a very small amount of harmful toxins, like mercury and lead, that are found in significant amounts in larger fish like the popular tilapia, mackerel and tuna just to name a few.

Yet another benefit with sardines is they are currently not in danger of being over fished. Thus, you can eat them with a clean conscious. The same can’t be said for that mercury-laden tuna you dig on either at the local sushi bar or from a can.

So in these tough economic times, why not explore new horizons while doing your body some good and keeping some money in your pocket by trying the simple recipe for sardines listed below.

Oh, and if you are still looking for a restaurant that serves the old-school sardines in a can, might I guide you to the best salad bar in the world located at The Old Country Club Steakhouse, in Roxboro, NC. There, next to the homemade dressings and fresh bacon bits you will find a jar full of sardines just waiting to be the piece de resistance on an already fantastic salad.


*Warning: While these fish are tasty, I would not recommend eating 1.2 pounds of them at one sitting as I did. Not that they are bad, but considering the average fish portion is just 4oz, 1.2 lbs is a whole lot of fish to eat.


Grilled Sardines with Lemon

12 fresh sardines (about 2 to 3 ounces each)
3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
fine sea salt
teaspoon black pepper
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice


De-bone and rinse sardines. Pat dry with paper towels. Spread sardines on a plate and drizzle with about 1 Tbl of olive oil. Sprinkle with sea salt and pepper.

Heat grill pan over moderately high heat until hot. Grill sardines (may require cooking in two batches) turning over once, until just cooked through about 4 to 5 minutes total per batch. Remove fish from pan and put on a clean plate.
Stir together lemon juice and 2 tablespoons oil. Drizzle mixture over sardines and eat.

All Over But The Angioplasty

After months of talk and speculation, Baconfest: Dine on Swine in ’09 commenced in an inconspicuous apartment in Atwater Village on Saturday 2/21. The following is an account of that night.



Outside, chants rang out like a steamship attempting to gain speed on concrete. A prayer gathering of sorts was in full ritual and was making itself known. Unfortunately, the group’s grunts were in vain for it appeared they were the only other illuminated window on the block. It was Saturday night after all. And Atwater Village was out to party.

And that was fine. Party on, Atwater Village.

However, the other action on the block belonged to a group of 11 which resisted the tempting fruits offered by Atwater Village on a Saturday night and gathered in apartment B. For doing so they would be rewarded on this particular evening. And they knew that.

Some arrived to apartment B brimming over with wonder and excitement. While others arrived using brave faces to hide their apprehension. All arrived committed to the task ahead of them.

Earlier in the week the participants had been instructed to come prepared to eat or to not come at all. Whether or not any of the 11 was intimidated by the instructions is unknown as well as irrelevant. For no one backed down and all receiving the message arrived on time (or at least close enough to on time given the group’s low expectations on promptness).

Of the 11 gathered in apartment B, only 9 were to participate in the eating of the bacon. Since no one had ever participated in such an event as this before, no one could be sure of any possible side effects that ingesting copious amounts of bacon might have on one’s physical and/or mental state. Therefore, 2 witnesses were required should the other 9 fall victim to any form of bacon intoxication previously un-experienced by anyone in the group. It helped that these witnesses were vegetarians. Thus, the probability of them falling victim to bacon intoxication was nearly half that of their more carnivorous brethren.

Never doubt the power of bacon.

One of said witnesses dwelled full-time in apartment B. To hold Baconfest in apartment B was a brilliant plan thought of by one of the original 5. For who would think to crash a pig party at a vegetarian’s place? No one, that’s who.

And no one did. Bacon sizzled and drinks flowed while the 9 indulged with little worry of interruption. The night was filled with many laughs and possibly a few tears. Ladies barked for joy and men begged for mercy. There was plenty of overindulgence and a fair amount of satisfaction. And yes, there was some doubt at times. But no one had gone into this alone. All would finish, or none would finish. And all did finish.

The details of that night may never become public knowledge. Even those who participated may never clearly comprehend exactly what went down. But 5 hours after the soirée began, the door of apartment B opened and the participants trickled out as inconspicuously as they had entered. The chanting had stopped and the chilly night air was refreshing. Almost purifying.

It was getting late. A few more lights were now on, and it was obvious that Atwater Village would be soon calling it a night. But before Atwater Village would close down the social gathering places and stumble home with a bag full of tacos, the participants would be gone and apartment B would once again become animal flesh free.

BACONFEST MENU

Pre-dinner hors d’oeuvres

Brie stuffed with brown sugar, walnuts and bacon in puff pastry

Scallion peanut butter canapés with bacon

Deep fried bacon with chipotle-lime aioli


Dinner

Course 1 – Almond stuff dates wrapped in bacon with a garlic-butter sauce

Course 2 – Celery root soup with bacon, Granny Smith apples and celery

Course 3 – Grilled pear salad with bacon, walnuts, Gorgonzola and ruby port vinaigrette with crackers wrapped in bacon

Course 4 – Cantaloupe sorbet with candied bacon

Course 5 – Chicken breasts stuffed with caramelized shallots, bacon, sage and Parmesan, topped with fried sage

Course 6 – Pan seared sea scallops over bacon lentils with a cider reduction and Mascarpone cream sauce

Course 7 – Peanut butter and bacon chocolate truffles

Dying Delicacy Or Appetizing Amphibian ?

While on a recent trip home to North Carolina, I was stunned to see a collection of flours like none other in the local Food Lion. Here in Los Angeles, when I go to buy flour, my choices are limited to a very small selection. So you can imagine my delight when I counted over 10 brands of flour to choose from!

Why does flour excite me so? Because I am on a crusade to make the best biscuit ever known to mankind. While I do enjoy the exotic treats my local L.A. grocery stores provide, like dragon fruit and tamarind pulp, either of which would be near impossible to find in a southern grocery store, they are lacking in the basics needed to make good southern food; in particularly biscuits. And there before me seemed to be the Mecca of biscuit flours (I’ve come to expect a wider pork product selection then anywhere else in the land, but never anticipated an abundance of flour).
I snatched up about 20lbs of flour and headed home for a biscuit-making extravaganza that would ultimately turn my mother’s kitchen into what would look like a winter wonderland (luckily she was out of town and therefore could not ground me for making such a mess).

But this blog is not about making biscuits. It is about what I ate while making biscuits. While I do love biscuits (There is little better than a warm flaky biscuit just out of the oven with a pat of butter (or, of course, a few strips of bacon or fried chicken and melted cheese {see previous blogs below}), I’ve been making about two batches a week and have grown a little numb to them for the time being. Thus it was necessary for me to pick up another item to nibble on for lunch.

After forcing myself away from the pork section of the store, I stumbled across the delicacy known as frog legs and knew they must be prepared.

If you’ve never had frog legs, it is true, they do taste a lot like chicken. And they are as every bit as simple to fry up as fowl.

But what alarmed me upon closer inspection of the package was that these frog legs were not yanked from a local creek, but rather were shipped from China??? Now seriously, Food Lion, is there some shortage of local frogs and local frog killers that you must have them shipped in from the other side of the world? I would like to think not. Shame on you Food Lion (but please keep up the good work with the flour and swine)!

Nevertheless, I ate them and they were very good. But my conscious really did ache ever so slightly (but that pain was replaced with overwhelming joy when I shortly thereafter nailed the master biscuit recipe! {And you can hang up any ideas that that recipe will EVER be appearing here.}).

But to my chagrin, said conscious again took a beating when I read an article released only 2 days prior claiming that frogs are rapidly disappearing due to human consumption.

We can blame the dwindling population on, well, the Frogs. Not the one’s on our plate, but the ones in Europe. For it is the French that consume the most frog legs in a given year and we will label them the bad guys (yet again. {Hmm, should we call heretofore call refer to them as ‘Freedom Legs?’}) for doing so. However, the US is a close second while Indonesia leads the world in frog leg exports.

Almost 11,000 tons of frog meat is consumed annually. That’s about 200 million – 1 billion frogs! In fact, Indonesia quit exporting frog legs after the country was so overrun by the flies and mosquitoes that were left to multiply exponentially without their #1 predator.

Years ago when I heard Chilean Sea Bass was dwindling away, I quit eating it (yes, that does make me a better person than you). It wasn’t easy due to it being the daily special on every Applebee’s & Cheesecake Factory menu between here and the moon. Yet I have successfully stayed away from that delicious fish for many years now…and so should you. I can make no such promise to the frog. While I will stay away from all frogs that had to buy a transpacific ticket just to get here, frogs that are killed by a good ol’ boy with a frog gigger are still fair game.

In the meantime, should you find yourself with your own dead frog on the end of a sharp homemade weapon, try this recipe for a crunchy treat. There are many gourmet recipes for frog legs, this is not one of them. But it is good eatin’ nonetheless.


Fried Frog Legs
Serves 4

8 pair frog legs
1 cup veg oil
1/2 cup flour
3 cups buttermilk
1 tsp paprika
1/2 tsp onion powder
1/2 tsp garlic, crushed
1/2 tsp ground cayenne pepper
salt and pepper
1 dash oregano
1 dash rosemary

Frog legs from the store should be already skinned. If using fresh frog, skin legs and parboil for 3 min in one part lemon juice or white vinegar to four parts water before continuing. Cover with buttermilk and garlic in a mixing bowl, refrigerate for 1 hour. Pat dry, season with paprika, onion powder, cayenne and S&P. Add oregano and rosemary to the flour. Heat oil in a skillet. Lightly flour the frog legs and fry until golden brown.