by Elizabeth DeWolfe
In the summer of 1934, a good night’s sleep eluded Myra Lougee. She had moved to her parlor in early June to sleep on her couch, hoping to find relief. A month later, she was still there. It wasn’t the stiflingly hot weather, illness, or the challenges of the Great Depression that kept Myra awake; she moved to her parlor to evade a nighttime amphibious tormentor: bullfrogs. But in mid-July, six weeks into her troubles, Myra resolved to fight back, and she placed her faith in an eight-year-old boy.
Seventy-five years old and living alone in Limerick, Maine, Myra Fogg Lougee (1859-1941) chopped wood, tended her garden, cut the grass, and washed laundry by hand. She made endless batches of molasses cookies and cooked filling noontime dinners, often joined by her son Arthur, who lived one mile away with his wife and daughter. Myra did the work of younger people while suffering from maladies of age, including persistent indigestion and sore joints after a strenuous day’s work. She frequently took an afternoon nap, only to return to her labors after supper. Each evening, she found time to record a line or two in her diary, a gift given to her in 1920 and now part of the Maine Women Writers Collection at the University of New England. A frugal Yankee, Myra crossed out the year 1920 and wrote in 1934.
Arthur assisted with the heavy labor, but Myra did most of the gardening herself – growing a wide variety of vegetables she canned and preserved for winter use. She battled a legion of garden pests with a daily mission of picking and killing striped cucumber beetles, cabbage worms, caterpillars, and bean weevils. On May 7, she destroyed fifty caterpillar nests. Myra’s battle with insects protected her food supply. But her evening battle, more irksome and aggravating than a bean weevil, threatened her sleep: frogs—the endless croaking of American bullfrogs.
The American bullfrog, Lithobates catesbeianus, is the largest North American frog and can reach eight inches in length and weigh between two and three pounds. The frog can be brown, olive, or light to dark green on top with a creamy white belly—a raised ridge curves from behind the eye to the eardrum. In Maine, bullfrogs typically breed from mid-June to July, when the air temperature rises above 68. Given the hot weather Myra records in her diary, the frogs were active and noisy from early June through mid-July. And Myra was mightily annoyed.
When breeding, bullfrogs make a distinctive sound described as a low-pitched “rum.” It’s loud and repetitive, and when multiple frogs were croaking, it was quite the symphony. To Myra’s consternation, the frogs were not far from her house—the frog pond was close enough for Myra to fill and carry six pails of water to cool her parched garden.
Frogs did have their uses. Bullfrogs provide pest control in a well-balanced aquatic ecosystem, eating algae, mosquito larvae, and other insect pests. In addition, fishing for frogs provided a leisure activity, and the catch was desirable food. Myra’s son Arthur and granddaughter Alice Jane went fishing for frogs in early July. Given the hardship of the Great Depression, exploiting a local food source was economical. Indeed, a few days after the fishing expedition, Myra served fried frog legs for her grown son’s dinner with a side of potato and perhaps a gloating smile.
Frogs were standard fare in New England. The enjoyment of frog legs came through two culinary lines. In the Revolutionary War period, French forces enjoyed cuisses de grenouillet despite the mocking soldiers received from the American colonial army. Once Revolutionary leaders tried the food, they found it enjoyable, and frog legs and other elements of French cuisine became a culinary fad. Some Native Americans also ate bullfrog legs, a local meat subsequently adopted by colonists. Frog legs provided a low-fat, high-protein meal rich in omega-3 fatty acids, potassium, and vitamin A. The mild flavor is said to taste like chicken.
Frogs had commercial uses as well. During the Depression, Louisiana businessman Albert Broel encouraged budding entrepreneurs to raise frogs. Conveniently, Broel informed interested parties that with his instructional manual, Frog Raising for Pleasure and Profit, you could sell bullfrogs to canning factories and become rich. Broel was at the heart of a 1930s frog farm craze: he ran the nation’s leading frog canning plant, offering consumers canned frog legs and Frog á la King. To market the versatility of the giant bullfrog, Broel created myriad recipes that featured bullfrogs in dishes including gumbo, pie, omelets, sandwiches, and “Giant Bullfrog Pineapple Salad.”
Myra would have found frog leg recipes in several 1930s cookbooks. After skinning and washing the hind legs, preparations included broiling them with salt, pepper, and oil; rubbing them with a cut lemon; deep frying and serving them with tartar sauce or ketchup; or dipping them in egg and crumbs then frying the legs in butter. Marjorie Mosser’s 1939 Good Maine Food suggested placing the crumb-covered legs in a frying basket and dunking the portions in hot fat for four minutes. A 1930 advertising recipe booklet for “Oriental Show-You [shoyu] Sauce” suggested broiling frog legs and finishing by basting with the Asian-inspired condiment. The Atchison (Kansas) Junior Senior League cookbook prepared frog legs with egg and crumbs, in the cookbook nestled between shrimp wiggle and creamed fish recipes. The Woman’s Club of Joplin, Illinois, offered this hint: “Roll each [frog leg] in wax paper, then . . . freeze solid to break up the small tendons. That is the secret of tender frogs.” To make “Supreme Frog Legs,” scald the frog legs, then add to the pot boiling water, an onion, carrot, lemon juice, salt, pepper, and parsley. Stew until tender, drain the water, and add mushrooms and thin cream to the softened vegetables; stir, warm, and serve as gravy. In the twenty-first century, the “Frog Kings”dip the prepared legs in pancake batter, deep-fry them, and enjoy them with maple syrup.
But in the summer of 1934, the living, croaking frogs continued to bedevil Myra. She made her plan.
“I have made a trade with the boy across the way to get the frogs that disturb me,” Myra wrote in her diary. She offers no details on her end of the bargain, but the young man got right to work. On his first day on the job, July 6, eight-year-old Alfred Aspinall captured seven frogs. Myra was delighted and buried the frog corpses; no tears were shed. Three days later, a hopeful Myra noted that just one frog was left “to punish her.” By July 10, Alfred had captured twenty-two frogs. Arthur and Alice Jane had caught eight, thirty giant, green, croaking beasts in total. Victory seemed at hand, but sleep continued to be elusive.
For nearly two weeks, Alfred patrolled the frog pond. He seemed adept at his task, showing Myra dead frogs, receiving his reward, and kindly, it appears, disposing of the bodies for her. Yet Myra found little relief, continuing to sleep on the couch and complain in her diary about the endless nocturnal chorus. Then, on July 19th, Alfred’s scheme unraveled. It appears young Alfred showed Myra the same dead frogs repeatedly, collecting double bounties—be it money or molasses cookies—on the same frog heads. Myra’s verdict was swift: “I learned today that my frog boy was lying to me – shall do no more business with him.”
Poor Alfred. A former schoolteacher who did not suffer fools, Myra undoubtedly dressed him down. Alfred, the son of English immigrants, likely also endured a stern word or two from his parents. If Alfred had in mind an apology, he chickened out. Myra noted in her diary the next day: “Frog boy keeps out of my sight.”
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photo credit: Robert Zunikoff, Unsplash
Elizabeth DeWolfe is Professor of History at the University of New England (Biddeford, Maine), where she teaches courses on women’s history, American culture, and archival research. Her award-winning work includes The Murder of Mary Bean and Other Stories, on the short life and sad death of a textile mill operative, and Shaking the Faith: Mary M. Dyer’s Anti-Shaker Campaign. Her current research explores the untold true story of a Gilded Age stenographer turned undercover detective. Dr. DeWolfe has published shorter pieces in Down East Magazine, Maine Women, Historic New England, and online on Nursing Clio. She is a passably good ukulele player and makes her home in Alfred, Maine, with her husband, an antiquarian book dealer.