LesGensFaims

Frog in Your Throat

The witches of yesteryear often talked of the fountain of youth. Pounce de Leon searched in vain deep in the jungles of south Florida, but the only water he found was swamp water and it was loaded with alligators.

 Where I'm from,we have our own fountain of youth and we call it well water.  And well, it comes from a well dug in the ground  - to be exact, the ground of Albermale county whose soil is rocky but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, a local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. 

 Well water has a sharp aftertaste which can be mistaken as blood. You may think you have your bitten lip, when in reality it's the soil's iron dense nutrients entering your system. As you lick your mouth, you find no wound and can't help but smile. 

 There once was a frog stuck in our well and it caused a big brouhaha on the farm. The thought of a slimy amphibian loitering in our water supply weirdly delighted me. I remember my Uncle Jingles ever the recipient of unpleasant tasks descending into the misty cave. He lifted the black tarp that masked the well's entrance and threw it aside and soon descended into the murky labyrinth. I was in awe and contained my delight by scampering in between the main house and the cottage waiting for a frog to jump out. It never did and I think it sunk lower into the muddy waters of the well. The only thing that emerged was Jingles' head and he looked distressed, addled, and annoyed.  

 My Grandfather barked, "Well, did you see it? Where is it?"

Jingles shook his head and suggested to my Grandfather they go the stables to feed the horses. 

 The black tarp resumed its post and soon the frog was left to its watery grave or perhaps haven. Although the frog stayed and his whereabouts continued to remain a mystery evolving into local folklore, our water supply did not alter. I smacked my lips each morning wondering if I I was drinking "frog water," and told my friends at Free Union Country Day that there was a frog  in our well. It was not until I was in high school, when I heard the expression "frog in your throat" that the incident came back to me flooding my mind with memories of my unruly agrarian upbringing came flooding back and without thinking, I blurted out, "Oh we once had a frog in our well." 

The perfect perky pony tail sitting in front of me at 12 o'clock turned around.

"What?" said my St. Catherine's classmate raising her eyebrows.

 I replied, "Oh, we had a frog in our well - well my Grandfather's well because we used to live on his farm when my Mom was writing her dissertation…."

My classmate ignored my mindless clatter and zeroed in on my original comment, " You said you had a frog in your well?"

"Yes, we literally had a frog in our well. Maybe it slid in….but it's funny since you said you had a frog in your throat…."

" That's disgusting. We only drink bottled water at home. What does well water taste like? Is it safe?"

I shrugged my shoulders. " Of course, it's safe. I mean it tastes a little bit like blood, but that's because of the iron in the soil."

"It tastes like blood! Was that because of the frog in your well? Did it die?"

I laughed.

"Why is this SO funny? I think it is gross." continued my classmate.

"Oh come on, it is funny given the saying 'frog in your throat,' when we had a frog in our well.' It did not die and probably lead a very cozy life in our well. Furthermore,  well water is probably the best kind of water you can drink. It comes from the soil right in your backyard and is loaded with nutrients from the ground much like the food in your garden."

But it is was too late. I had upset my classmate with this hillbilly tale.

She looked at me and replied, "I think it it is disgusting! I can't believe you drank from a well. I can't believe there was a frog in it."

"It was fine," I said. "Probably not much different than bottled water you drink and in fact better."

She snorted, "Are you sure?"

I thought to myself, " Yeah, I am sure and it's because of that damn well water slash frog pool that I am better Latin student than you."

I decided to end the conversation but the reappearance of that perky ponytail tied with a pink ribbon tied hinted that it was already over.

Later that day, I found myself by the vending machine perusing the usual suspects of sodas, fruit juices, pretzels, potato chips, and candy bars. Adjacent there was a whole machine containing bottled water - Dasani to be exact and I noticed how many girls came back an forth buying bottled water. It was 2001 and bottled water was all the rage. It had never crossed my mind to buy water except on long road trips, but my recent conversation had left me wondering. Was well water weird? Was my family some bizarre species who rather than distill moonshine in the mountains guzzled well water?  And furthermore, when we buy our tenth bottle of the day is out of pure necessity or rather is it simply a by product of the current status quo's mindset concerning superior hydration? 

 Today, 60 million bottles of water are used daily in the U.S. - or to be more precise are thrown away. Not everyone can have the luxury of a well, but the majority do have running water. When I lived in Italy, I was shocked by the numerous bottles of water people drank and the plastic bottle graveyards I noticed on my biked ride to and from school. 

 During those initial months, my sore stomach proved that the water supply was sub par and I soon purchased a filter. I thought about my Grandfather's farm, Twin Orchards and its well water, and my awakening in high school about the bottled water cult. I wondered what had initially provoked it, how many suppliers of bottled water existed in the world, and what was their marketing strategy and overall appeal. 

 Our thirst for purity whether it's water from the Alps of Evian or the thermes of San Pellegrino or even the lowly iron rich well water of Free Union, Virginia brings to the fore our current confusion with need and want. How much water do we need to clear the 'frog or future frogs in our throats'? How many bottles does it take and whose is better? Where is this so-called fountain of the youth?It is a ploy or was it always in the backyard - a simple canal of hydration and future insurance towards a good life. Maybe the frogs knows.

 

 

Well Water

There are few individuals with whom I can dine. I say this without hesitation or a hint of snobbery. It's simple: People have different tastes and how they measure up over a meal can either make or break and an evening. There is one individual with whom I can always break bread. We share what you could say are similar aptitudes of taste, desires, needs, and random cravings. So when we have the rare occasion to dine or casually nibble and imbibe, I scan a wine list without fear as she scans the list of  amenable canapes or what we call in North America,"Appetizers." I have a sneaky feeling that we will reach a mutual agreement about our choice poisons and dish du jour without second guessing. There is no pleasing the other - no momentary caution of, "oh she doesn't eat this" or " I know she would really like this, but hell I hate tomatoes in winter,"  and so on. 

In the game of life, what we eat does determine to some extent what we are. Brillat Savarin's anecdote still wrings true and occasionally haunts me when I stop to think what my insides might resemble after an indulgent occasion - they might be glistening like an iridescent  extra terrestrial alien egg or perhaps they're wrapped in a moomoo covering up their wobbly bits. Without straying too far -  what we eat does determine many things, but who we eat with can determine a number of outcomes. How you enjoy food is to some extent an intimate and individual act, but I cannot think of anything that inspires more joy than sharing food with someone. It's an intrinsic part of our human existence to eat together. But, how we enjoy it and how we share that enjoyment is a whole other thing entirely.

My friend and I have some interesting common traits that  have played a subtle role in our palates' development and ability to share and always enjoy food together. It's called well water and yes, it comes from a well dug in the ground - to be exact, the soil of Albermale county where it is rocky  but the view of Blue Ridge is handsome and the sound of the bard owl's perpetual hooing question, "who cooks for you" echoes in the woods. It's home. Free Union, Virginia with a modest population of 193 inhabitants, a post office, a local country-store called Maupins where the moonpies, twinkies, and slim jims are are as old me, local garage mechanic, and lastly the resident witchdoctor, Bruce Campbell's Family practice. It's a cheerful place and one where honey suckle perfumes the air each spring and fireflies make their starry debut every year on my mother's birthday, June 1st. 

Oddly and unfortunately, Miss Gerrow and I did not cross paths during our mud pie making days. I am confident that if we had, we would have had  quite a dirty tea party that would even make the Mad Hatter blush. But, we have made up for lost time ( or so I would like to think so) and during my year in San Francisco, I noticed more and more how our taste buds were alike - from slices of piquant salami to late nights of making a mouth-watering home cooked meal wine in hand to lazy Sunday afternoons of splitting dessert at Tartine Cafe over a glass of sparkling white wine. Yes, you could say we were soul mates when it came to our choice gruels and would cackle with delight as we bit into our flakey buttery croissants over bowls of lattes. I can never watch the Godfather without thinking of that soggy Memorial Day weekend when we watched all three over spaghetti and meatballs and homemade chocolate chip cookies, and yes wine. It was a merry year of good eating, cooking, and the constant discovery of new tastes, recipes always spiced  with a sense of mutual appreciation. We would both say, "It must be that well water," and would laugh. But there is something to the weird country voodoo that lives at large in Free Union's untamed woods. It cast its spell on me and Abby at a young age.

So on this fine femme's birthday, I salute her high brow taste, sharp culinary skills, and think fondly of the last time I saw her, when we split a pastry over frothy lattes at New York's Stumptown Roasters. She knows my morning ritual well and I hers. So happy birthday dear dear friend. I raise my goblet of well water to you.