Parents, Froggies, Fake Soup & The Door Unhinged

Dear readers: Apologies for my missing Tuesdays usual blog post—I was busy locked in battle with my publisher over my cookbook. Let’s just say the margins fought back harder than expected, but I came out swinging, and the recipes are safe! So today you get a Wednesday story instead of Tuesday’s with not one, not two, but three short funny stories! Consider it a midweek snack with extra seasoning. Read on ...

 Parents

Reflecting back, I realized my friends and I have done some weird stuff in our days as young chick‑a‑dees. My friend Maria and I frequented a local pub called Lions—which, by the way, had about as much class as a gas station bathroom with a jukebox. It was right on the corner of her block, so naturally I slept over her house just about every weekend. Why? Because it was convenient—no driving involved, no “designated driver”. Just a short stumble home like a couple of penguins waddling back to the igloo.

Her parents were like second parents to me, and pretty much treated us equally. Which meant when Maria got yelled at, I got yelled at too. Nothing says “family” like being scolded by someone else’s dad for a blouse too “low-cut” and you didn’t even buy it.

Her father was a bit strict, but now that I’ve raised my own kids, I know he was justified like a traffic cop with a radar gun. I recall him yelling at us to go back upstairs and change our blouses, because we weren’t getting out of the house dressed like backup dancers for a Bee Gees reunion tour. The blouses didn’t even show cleavage! It was like a PG-rated Disney movie getting censored anyway. We did go change, but that didn’t mean we weren’t going to wear what we wanted! We smuggled those shirts out like we were CIA agents sneaking state secrets out of the White House!

Froggies

Then there was a time we went to Staten Island to pick up my boyfriend who was working in a pet store—it was mostly fish though. He took us into the part of the store with all the tanks, I lost count of how many were in there. Honestly, it looked like Times Square for guppies. Well, we came across this one tank that had baby frogs in it. They were about the size of a quarter if you put leg span in the equation—basically the amphibian version of Fun‑Size candy bars. Maria said she wanted some “froggies,” so my boyfriend scooped up a batch in a plastic bag, the same way you’d get goldfish. Except these weren’t goldfish—they were doing laps like they were training for the Boston Marathon. If frogs had Fitbits, these guys would’ve been bragging about their step count.

We drove him home, then Maria and I decided to go back to her house to get dressed nicer for later that night. Unfortunately, we left the frogs in her car—the one with a broken window taped up with plastic. That car looked like it was rocking the world’s saddest Saran Wrap makeover.

It was winter, so you can imagine what happened next. Yep—you guessed it. Those poor little baby “froggies” were frozen solid. We came back to find them in the bag like a frozen dinner entrée: Swanson’s Froggie Surprise. Honestly, they looked less like pets and more like ice cubes for a very questionable cocktail. I said, “Let’s bring them into the house; perhaps they’ll thaw and we’ll come home to find them swimming happily, just like a bunch of Vegas synchronized swimmers.” After all, ponds freeze over in winter and the fish survive, right? Wrong.

We brought them inside to thaw, went out, and when we returned, they were just as dead—like expired coupons at the grocery store.

Fake Soup 

The next morning our first thought was to say our goodbyes to our “Froggies”, then give them a porcelain funeral and flush them. But Maria had a different idea. We poured chicken broth into a pot, heated it up, and added “froggies” like they were dumplings in grandma’s soup pot. We weren’t going to eat them, but we did bring them down to the pub after it opened. Because what else do two girls do with a bag of frozen frogs? It’s not like Martha Stewart has a recipe for Froggie soup – or does she?

While talking to our favorite bartender, we’ll call him Eric, he started coughing and said he thought he was getting a cold. And if you know Eric, then you know this guy treated every sniffle like it was the opening act for the flu. One cough and suddenly he’s auditioning for a NyQuil commercial. Maria jumps up like a game show contestant hitting the buzzer and exclaims, “I have chicken soup! Eric lit up: “OMG, I love you—can I have it?” Naturally she didn’t hesitate and handed him the jar. “Oooo, still hot,” he said. He set it on the bar, finished what he was doing, then went for that “froggie” soup.

As he lifted the jar to his lips, Maria yelled out, “STOP!” He froze, eyes wide. “Why?” he asked. She said, “Look closely at the soup.” He did, and the look in his eyes was like a man realizing his blind date is actually his best friend in drag! He swore he’d get even. To this day, he never did.

A Door Unhinged

It was an adventurous time, just like the time someone in the bar punched a hole thru the girl’s bathroom door because some guy and his girlfriend had an argument and he was mad she locked herself in the ladies’ room like a raccoon hiding in a dumpster during a thunderstorm.  The next day there was a new door, and the old one was leaning against a wall in the pub. Maria asked if we could have it. Of course they gave it away like a garage sale freebie nobody wants.

Late that night, we carried it back to her house, like movers hired from Craigslist who get paid in beer. we propped it against her parents’ bedroom doorway, covering their bedroom door. The next morning, her parents opened their door only to find another door staring back at them with a sign that said “Ladies” and a hole beneath in it!

It was like their bedroom had been upgraded to a pub bathroom overnight. Imagine waking up, stretching, and instead of freedom, you’re greeted by a door that basically says, “Sorry, you need a wristband to enter.” It was like a sitcom gag, written by fate itself. Her mother woke us up yelling, so we blamed her brother and said we saw him put it there last night. We went back to sleep. He got grounded and was madder than a cat shoved into a bathtub.

But to us, it was just another day in the life of Maria and Michele.

The Takeaway:

Sometimes the best stories aren’t about the recipes we perfected, but the ridiculous adventures we survived. Whether it’s frozen frogs, fake soup, or a bathroom door prank, the moral is simple: chaos makes the best memories—and the funniest blogs.

Meter Reading: “Parents, Froggies, Fake Soup & The Door Unhinged”

Category           Score                             Comic Flavor

Absurdity          9/10     Frozen frogs, soup pranks, nightclub bathroom doors—chaos is the main ingredient.

Timing 9/10     The “STOP!” soup reveal and the raccoon bathroom gag land like perfect punchlines.

Relatability      8/10     Strict parents, sneaking clothes, bar antics—everyone’s lived a version of this.

Visuals               9/10     Penguins waddling home, raccoons in dumpsters, nightclub bathrooms—sharp mental pictures.

Punchline Rhythm      9/10     Every section now has a laugh beat, no flat spots left behind.

Overall Humor Score: 8.8/10