On the Ramifications of Frog Music

I tend to rhapsody. I know it. Please excuse it. Forebear. It is Spring and the sky is grey and the wind has come up again and the dogs have stood maliciously in my tulip bed.

But I have see the ravens are returned to their summer skyway where, in their observance of morning, they churn up in invisible warm tunnels without choreography or any heeding to mankind. I have caressed the greening grass and dug up the resplendent weeds in my garden. My daughter has picked me daffodils. I am happy.

I have noticed, to my great joy, that suddenly the local frogs have awakened. Drawn up by the big moon from their winter beds, beckoned to the warm surface by light rains, brought out of slumber by the remembrance of their life's mission and the recollection of sweet summer bugs and quiet poolings, shaken into awareness, perhaps, by the little earthquakes of children busy making forts, they settle now, in the evenings, to sing.

Frogs have a kind of composure I admire. Very dour and intent, they frown and blink beatifically and with profound seriousness, they are properly plump, an oft unappreciated trait, and they lap up mosquitos with incandescent speed.

Bouncing sprightly across dry land, wiggling through marshes, they have somehow come to park and conduct their courtships in my garden and I am grateful for it. It makes me feel loved, received by a dear and social species whose virtues I find quite appealing.

On an evening now, of a day that has been stretched out too long by the vernal sun, I can go trudging at last up to my bower thinking of nothing much, partially anesthetize by fatigue and ritual, tucking people in, tossing cats out, dousing lights, leaving a trail of small loose ends finally knotted behind me, asking myself my bedtime question: do we sleep to wake, or do we wake to sleep?

Then, at the threshold of my icy bedroom, where the blankets are toasty, entwined around my husband like a large, living enchilada, and the clock glows already with tomorrow registered on its face, my numb, internal chatter is silenced by the slow recognition of a lovely, marimba serenade of frogs, all ardent, all soloists, in their one-word easy jazz operetta right outside my open window. And free it is. Completely free. A perfect work of art.

No books tonight. No scribbling. No last minute projects. Just peaceful listening. Falling asleep amidst music as pure and spontaneous as gifts of fresh flowers and rain.

Now for a recipe. Something exuberant, that sounds lovely on the tongue, and which represents Spring and is therefore colorful and elegant and lush: Strawberries and Cream Brûlée.

You can set this all up ahead of time and hide it so that you can add the element of surprise while insuring that no one picks at it before you are ready.

For four servings, wash and stem:

2 pints fresh strawberries

Cut the strawberries--or other fruit as it comes into season--into large chunks in a shallow baking dish, or single serving custard cups.

Sprinkle them lightly with:

sugar

sugar/cinnamon, or honey

Dollop as lavishly as you like with:

sour cream

Dash the top with a bit of freshly ground nutmeg if you like it.

Now put through a sieve:

1/4 - 1/2 C. brown sugar

Sprinkle the sour cream with this fine crumbled stuff.

About ten minutes before serving, preheat the broiler. You don't want to cook the berries, you want to caramelize the brown sugar.

Slip your dishes under the flame or burner so that they are about 3" from the heat.

Watch carefully and you should have melted, golden pools and streaks in about 2-3 minutes.

Serve with a spring of mint and some dainty little butter cookies if you can.

You are in tune. Ready for overtures.