“Frog Eggs and Faith” — A Sago Pudding Story 

When I was little, my mother made the most beautiful sago pudding — golden, glossy, and soft as Sunday light. But I wouldn’t touch it. Not a spoonful. Not even if she bribed me with condensed milk or promised I wouldn’t have to wash the dishes.

Someone (I strongly suspect a mischievous cousin) told me that sago was made from frog eggs. And that was that. I wanted no part in it. Frogs and I have never quite been on speaking terms — and if you’ve read A Woman’s Apron in the Attic, you’ll know why. They’ve appeared in my stories, my garden, and once even my dreams, always with the same smug look as if they know something I don’t.

So for years, I missed out on the comfort that sat steaming in that pudding dish — the creamy sweetness, the soft bounce, the warmth that gathers around a spoonful of home. All because I couldn’t get past what I thought it was.

It took me a long time — and a few grown-up lessons — to finally realize that life’s like that, too. How often do we turn away from something good because someone else planted the wrong picture in our head? We swallow the lie and miss the sweetness waiting just beneath it.

These days, I make sago pudding with extra care — slow, steady, stirring all the while. I still can’t say I love frogs, but I’ve learned not to let old fears steal the flavor from something lovely.