Only in France

"No, don't get me wrong - fish is great, and healthy, too!" insists an uncle of some sort midway through the main course of one of our many must-see-as-much-of-the-French-family-as-possible-while-we-are-here dinners. "But you have to try some of the specialties while you're here, too."

It is unfortunate. My brother and I have done well this time, arriving at the restaurant a bit early to allow ourselves time to peruse and decipher the menu beforehand in order to smoothly order our (admittedly somewhat conservative) velouté de carotte followed by grilled fish, thus avoiding having to ask our mother awkward questions. (For example: 'what's tartare, again?' 'raw meat' 'oh... right.') Somehow, though, we are still getting the 'you silly Americans, with your egregiously limited palate' lecture. Sigh.

"You've had moules (mussels), haven't you?"

Luckily, we have (before we were old enough to really know what was going on).

"And huitres (oysters)?"

I do not share the fact that I was sick for a week after the one and only time I tried an oyster (it was probably just unfortunately-timed, but I still like to blame the oyster).

"How about snails?"

Neither of us have ever tried snails. We protest that they just look so slimey and not particularly edible.

"But if you've tried oysters, snails are completely innocuous by comparison!" he informs us. "And if you think they look slimey when they're alive, you should see them when they're being prepared!"

An informative two or three minutes ensues, during which we learn that before you eat them, you have to make them "baver" (literal translation: drool) by packing them in salt. This gets all of the unwanted... um... stuff... out of them. He and my mother (who apparently witnessed this phenomenon during a stay in Bourgogne, which, they tell us, is where the best snails are) discuss the grossness of "drooling" snails at length. This does not increase the likelihood of me trying them in the near future.

"It's kind of like when Mémé Elise used to kill the rabbits!" reminisces the uncle.

"Oh, yeah! The rabbits in that little hutch in her garden... poor things..." you can tell my mother is trying to inject a little sympathy into the situation purely for our benefit. It does not really work, so she changes the subject: "You know what was really nasty, though? The chickens. Remember how she used chase them around and then grab them and break their necks and tear all the feathers out in the kitchen? And there'd be chicken feathers flying around the house for the rest of the day?"

"She made Yvonne such a nice little coat with those when she was a baby, remember?"

Charming. (Also beginning to sound slightly Little House on the Prairie). They are starting to get quite maudlin about this grandmother, who, admittedly, was quite a character. (Her other exploits include wielding a pitchfork during epic battles with her rooster.)

"Oh!" something brilliant has apparently occurred to the uncle, "but you know what's really good?" he pauses for effect. "Frog legs!"

Indeed.

"No, seriously, you should try them - they sell them in 1 kilo bags at the grocery store. With the other frozen foods."

I refrain from laughing with difficulty. Some other relative launches on a complex explanation of how to best cook them (all I remember is that it involves a lot of butter... naturally). Someone else is commenting in a serious tone that frog legs do not taste at all like beef. (Okay...)

I personally am still stuck on the idea of a 1 kilo bag of frog legs. What would the packaging look like? Innocent little froggies peering out at you? Little frog legs already roasted on a spit? Or sautéed or whatever? Or perhaps the bags are transparent? What do frog legs even look like? Is the skin still on them?

Clearly what I need to do is to head over to Picard (the supermarket that specializes in frozen foods) and check this situation out.

In the meantime, I suppress another giggle. Only in France.