This morning, I boiled a frog.
Not on purpose, of course. To understand this, you will need some background on our living conditions: First, we don’t have hot running water, so for bathing we boil water in an electric kettle to warm up our bath. Second, all our water is stored in a large vat outside which currently lacks a cover. Frogs get into the vat, and then into our plumbing. Daniel is occasionally surprised by a frog plopping out of the bathtub faucet and into his bath water, and more then one frog has been caught in- and survived- the spin cycle of the washer.
Anyways, apparently this unfortunate frog was included in the water I filled the kettle with this morning. I did hear one loud croak, but thought it was coming from the washer, and inspected it without finding the frog. When I was pouring the kettle into the bath, two stiff frog legs popped out of- and stuck in- the spout. I admit it took me 30 shocked seconds or so to realize what had happened. I stared at those little toes and could for the life of me figure out where they had come from. Then I couldn’t decide whether to start laughing hysterically or freak out and scream. As I was by myself, I settled for the less dramatic course of taking a few deep breaths and emptying the water and (fortunately) intact frog out the back door.
So did that qualify as French cooking?