I've never been a big fan of frogs, a feeling that I believe stems from the fact that they're slimy. Or at least, they look slimy. I've never touched one because, as we were all led to believe when we were young, doing so would give you warts.
There are a few frogs that I do like, though. Kermit seems awfully sweet. And one of my favorite restaurants is La Grenouille, named for the French word for frog. Now that I think of it, I've never had the frog legs at La Grenouille before.
I would consider sending Dempsey & Carroll's Cocktail Frog Invitation to guests because who wouldn't like a convivial frog?
If I had a little boy, I would use Scalamandre's Calabassas County fabric in his room because it's cute and youthful...and I'm old-fashioned enough that I think that childrens' rooms should look youthful, not hip.
But there is one frog that I have coveted for years. I've spied him, or rather one of his relatives, before in some pretty swell homes like those of Tony Duquette and Valentino. And finally, after all of these years, I can call him mine:
He'll look much happier with a little plant inside of him, perhaps a Christmas cactus (remember those?) in honor of the season. Now this is a frog that I'll happily take, warts and all.
Image at top: Frogs by Picasso, Metropolitan Museum of Art