Peggy

We wait patiently for food to be brought to us until there, in front of me, is placed a plate of frogs legs.

It is awful.

The little frogs legs are covered in a green garlicky sauce and smell amazing, but I can’t stop staring at their little toes. The legs themselves are so small, they are more like snacks really. But the toes, like little toys that I am now supposed to eat. And I do. They taste of chicken, not a bad taste, but I have to apologise to the little frog with each bite, politely chewing. They are only bite size and it seems like such a pointless death. Killing these little creatures for that!

I leave some, unable to keep going. I know my cousin won’t tell me off. He is very kind to me. That is why I am here, spending Christmas Eve away from my family. But it turns out, I would have been happier at home. I am not sure why I agreed to it but at 12 years old, I would discover later that this was the start of Christmas losing its magic. Of my parents unable to keep civil for the sake of their children, even at Christmas, and of my unsuccessful quest to recover a bit of that special feeling.

The party will only get worse as I crouch under the table after dinner, trying to hide from a very distant relative, an old man, inexplicably to my young mind, searching for all the little girls to invite them to dance.

That evening took away a little bit of my innocence. Not because of that man, as I managed to evade him in the end, but because I lost Christmas that night and I will never forget the guilt of eating tiny frogs’ toes.