This morning, the topic was the annual Tatachwan Frog Derby. Two men sat at the counter: Luther, a stoic trapper with hands like catcher’s mitts, and Little Earl, a retired jockey who now weighed two hundred and forty pounds and claimed he could still "read a horse’s mind."
If you meant something else—perhaps a specific artist, a cultural term, or a different name—feel free to provide more context, and I'd be happy to look into it for you!
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The rules: release the jars. First frog to the end wins. The owner got the prize—a hand-painted sign reading "Frog Champion" and a free Swamp Biscuit every Sunday for a year.
On the east side of town, Mabel "Mama Juke" Jefferson was already at work in her cinder-block kitchen, rolling out dough for her famous "Swamp Biscuits"—dense, peppery disks fried in rendered hog fat and served with a dollop of pawpaw jelly. Her cafe, The Full Plate , was the de facto town hall. The menu never changed: biscuits, grits, fried catfish, and a pickled egg floating in a jar of beet juice on the counter. The entertainment was the clientele.