How on earth did lobsters become an expensive delicacy? They are, after all, garbage monsters of the ocean floor like seagulls who are garbage collectors on the shore.
Visit any upscale restaurant serving seafood and you are likely to see in the entry way a tank crammed with rusty-brown lobsters crawling over each other, their claws rubber-banded shut so they wield them underwater as ineffective clubs while flipping their tails trying unsuccessfully to swim. In some restaurants you are likely to watch this aquarium adventure while waiting to be seated. Is this show supposed to whet your appetite? Do people really stand before that tank and pick out the lobster they want for their dinner?
Of course, I am not a very adventurous eater. I did not try the haggis when I was in Scotland, and I did not particularly like the mutton when in England. The beer offered to us at a South African celebration for a native man turning 21 smelled awful, and the Indian food was too spicy. (South Africa has the largest population of Indians outside of India.) Nor did I care for the dandelion wine given to me when I visited a Hutterite settlement in Manitoba.
Several years ago, during an annual Christmas visit with my mother to her sister and brother-in-law’s home in Florida, I decided this would be the New Year’s Eve I would feast on lobster. After all, everyone raves about this delicacy. This was a huge leap out of my comfort zone. Comfort food is golden deep-fried coconut shrimp with plum sauce for dipping.
I was, however, a bit confused about being in Florida where seafood prevails and having Maine lobster listed as the special. I considered for a moment how lobster travels from Maine to Florida and whether they came by boat or plane and how long it took. Was this “fresh” lobster? It was surely fate!
When the server asked my cooking preference, I am sure I said broiled. I recalled the words from experts saying lobsters feel no pain when dropped in a pan of boiling water. Not completely convinced about the no pain, I was taking no chances. I ordered my lobster broiled not even considering how a kicking, clawing lobster is confined under a broiler. I just didn’t think I could handle knowing that a lobster I was about to eat might have screamed, if only briefly.
My mother and aunt ordered coconut shrimp! The shrimp was set before them. My taste buds longed for the luscious, familiar tasting, golden-brown coconut shrimp — my seafood of choice. But this was the night to enjoy another sea creature, I told myself. I was ready for a great dining experience.
What was set before me was a bright red lobster. I knew I was in trouble when the beady, black eyes on the now crimson body stared at me from the snow-white plate. Why did he have to look at me and why did I have to wear this stupid plastic bib? When I surveyed the room, I saw others attired in the same white, plastic bib with a picture of a crimson lobster emblazoned on the front.
I didn’t understand, though, why the succulent white meat wasn’t poofed out like I had seen pass by my table so many times in restaurants at home.
Maybe if I didn’t look at the black, beady eyes and “walking legs” sticking out, I could do this. My uncle suggested I break the tail away from the body. That, of course, meant I had to use both hands. My right hand grasped the tail while my left held onto the upper torso just behind those black, beady eyes and long walking legs. Cold chills traveled down my spine when the walking legs encountered my palm.
“Twist your hands in opposite directions,” instructed my aunt and uncle. I twisted but apparently not hard enough. After a second hearty twist, I heard the crunch of shell cracking against shell. I quickly dropped the severed head and in so doing, looked down to see green-black gunk now oozing from the lobster onto the snow-white plate.
I couldn’t do it!
“Maybe you could eat the claw first,” my aunt suggested. “Just twist it from the body and crack it open with the claw cracker.”
I stared at my plate contemplating returning this bright red, beady-eyed lobster to the ocean floor. Instead, I excused myself to the restroom. When I returned, my place was cleared and my uncle was feasting on his second lobster of the evening.
Here’s the Thing: For the life of me I cannot find anything to write to further illuminate the above experience with lobsters. The problem isn’t with lobsters or even eating. The problem is that as I wrote this, much was going on in the world to distract me. My head and heart hurt for the Ukrainian people. Mr. Rogers said, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.” I am so thankful there are people helping because I certainly don’t know what to do except cry at man’s inhumanity!
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Editor’s Note: This is one of a series of articles written by a group of retired and current teachers — Ken Ballinger, Billy Kreigh, Marianne Darr-Norman, and Anna Spalding. Their intent is to spur discussions at the dinner table and elsewhere. You may also voice your thoughts and reactions via The News-Banner’s letters to editor.
