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Lobster Trauma
By
Suzette Martinez
Standring |
 Milton
- Nothing says summer like a lobster roll. I’m a big
fan, but now I leave the steaming to somebody else. Lobsters
are heavenly, but hellish to cook and I’m still not over the
trauma of preparing my first (and only) crustaceans.
I’m originally from the Left Coast and back in 2000 when I
moved to The Bay State I wanted to tackle local cuisine. All
the locals raved about “lobstah” and gave me cooking
instructions. Six minutes in boiling water, how tough was
that?
A painless plunge into the superheated deep was possible by
“hypnotizing” lobsters by rubbing their heads. I’m not sure
why, but like a six-minute boil, it sounded easy enough.
I ritualized the event, thanks to my California-instilled
mindfulness about our connectedness in the web of life. For
example, during hunts Indians thanked the deer just before
the kill, acknowledging the animal’s contribution to sustain
their lives. Not a bad idea. Every creature has a role to
play. Sometimes it’s dinner.
So there I was, before a steaming pot of water, yakking away
and sending my lobsters into a stupor by rubbing their
crusty little orange heads. Surely, Native American- style
gratitude couldn’t hurt.
“Hey, thanks, guys. You’re going to be delicious. Now just
relax and stay tender. Vaya con Dios.”
Then I dropped them into the water, expecting the lobsters
to quietly bob until boiled.
Oh, no they didn’t. If hypnotized at all, they snapped out
of trance with a vengeance. Thrashing and flailing, they
snorted wheezy little sounds.
Or maybe that was me gasping with horror like a gaffed fish.
I covered the pot and backed away. The lid started to move
and I hopped about, wringing my hands, “Oh no, oh no, oh
no!!!”
Were they strong enough to escape? I imagined two orange
monsters emerging with beady, accusing stares and antennae
pointed at my heart.
So I threw myself onto the lid to hold it down. From
underneath came unearthly sounds. Tink. Tink. Tink. Sweat
poured, my eyes widened and my heart thumped with dismay.
It was a crazy time to think about books. When Edgar Allen
Poe wrote A Telltale Heart, did he cook a lobster for
inspiration? The Gashlycrumb Tinies crossed my mind and
“boiling” is surprisingly absent from Edward Gorey’s ominous
ABC book of dark ways to die.
Tink. Tink. Tink. This can’t be! I peeked inside and the
lobsters tried to crawl out! On the inside and outside of
that pot, a lot of crying was going on.
Arthropods are hardy, but these little guys could star in
Dawn of the Dead. Finally, the tapping stopped, just a hiss
of steam.
Ashen faced, I set a romantic dinner for two.
Later, David asked, “What did you do today?”
“Execution of innocents. Sentenced to a rolling boil. See?
The corpse is laid in state next to your cob of corn. Bon
appétit,” I said.
Today, I’ve retired my home steamer, but my taste for
lobster remains eager as ever. What can I say? Yum-yum-yum
still outweighs tink-tink-tink.
Now the fish counter at the supermarket does the dirty work
of boiling my lobsters “to go.” During the wait, I sprint
away to grab a gallon of milk.
That’s me at the dairy case, mumbling, “Oh, thank you, great
lobster spirits.” |
About The Author
Contact Suzette Standring at suzmar@comcast. net. She
is the author of the awardwinning The Art of Column Writing.
Visit http://wwwreadsuzette.com.
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