FROG LEGS
All my life, I’ve been anxious about things I can’t control. When I embarked on my first cross-country road trip the summer before my senior year of college, I worried about a plethora of things—extreme weather conditions, engine trouble, hitchhikers, and accidents—none of which actually eventuated. In the end, it was the frog legs that caused the most harm.
Our route would take us from Austin, Texas, to Wilmington, Delaware, and our chariot was a trusty 1999 Honda Accord named Alaska, which belonged to my best friend and travel companion, Maddie. Alaska was a temperamental beast of burden with a sticky parking brake, a tape deck, and paper maps and guidebooks crammed into every possible alcove. Before
