This post is for our friend, John.
Last week we had the privilege of having dinner at a house on Orr’s Island, which was being rented by John’s brother Jerry and his wife, Carol. It was one of those evenings that we all hope for – the weather was fall-perfect, the house was old, charming, and right on the harbor, and the people were a blast. We laughed, we drank wine, we laughed some more, we told stories, we drank more wine, again we laughed… you get the idea.
When we first arrived at the charming little house, the grill was fired up and the steaks were sizzling. Looking past the grill, out over the deck and onto the water, we could see the setting sun. Yes, it was way cool.
Then we went inside to eat – because the lobsters were ready. Here is a photo of what was to come:
And this is where true confessions come in. I can’t eat lobster – not like that. Not with those beady little eyes staring at me, where I have to break open their bodies and take the guts out with a fork, all the while having mysterious liquids dripping everywhere.
Our friend, John, on the other hand, is severely allergic to lobster. He ate two. Yes, we watched his eyes swell and turn red as the evening progressed. Well, that happened to the rest of us, too, but it was the wine, not the lobster.
Let me just say that the steak was delicious and the company was wonderful. It was all good UNTIL… John brought up the subject of this blog…
He told me that he was going to come here to leave a comment and tell the internet that I, a writer with a blog about Maine, do not eat lobster in the traditional way.
I began sputtering about how I like lobster STEW and lobster BISQUE and lobster ROLLS. I really DO like lobster. I just like it already picked out of the carcass. Same thing with steak. I like the beef already taken out of the cow, so I can’t see what the animal used to look like. Is that so bad?
So I’m pre-empting the inevitable and covering my steps in case John decides to make good on his threat.
But now you know the ugly truth – I’m all turf and no surf.
Copyright © 2008 - Paulla Estes