A Lobster Tale

The Christmas season is a time to gather around a warm fire with family and reminisce about the very best of times.  In one of these glorious Christmas moments, my brother-in-law said, “Do you remember the lobster in Maine?”  Everyone laughed because we all remember that day and that particular crustacean.

It’s been over ten years since our family traveled to Maine.  For the record, I like lobster.  Oh, who am I kidding?  That’s the understatement of the millennium.  I like lobster more than dogs like to shake when they’re wet, more than Quasimodo likes Wednesdays, more than cows like to paint billboards.  It would be safe to say I don’t just like lobster, I luuuuv it, with a long drawn out emphasis on luv.  So, as you can imagine, Maine was a pretty cool culinary experience.

In Maine, they had fried lobster, steamed lobster, lobster salad, and lobster on a bun.  They even had lobster at McDonalds.  It was all good, but nothing beats the traditional whole steamed lobster.  In Maine, they were bigger, better, and cheaper.  That brings me to the mother of all lobsters.

Now, to say the lobster that sat on my plate that fateful day we all recall was big is like calling Godzilla a lizard.  This was no ordinary crustacean.  This lobster was older than folk music.  It was bigger than Air Force One, bigger than the USS Indianapolis, bigger than the boat big enough to catch Jaws.  In the world of lobsters, this one was James Dean, Frank Sinatra, Marilyn Monroe, and Madonna all wrapped into one charismatically delectable delight, and it was on my plate.  My wife had clams.  Yeah, whatever.

I tucked in for my early bird special and began to remove the tail.  With a quick snap, I was ready to access that meaty center of pure ecstasy.  Unfortunately, it was kinda stuck.  I tugged and pulled and pried.  Nothing.  Frustration began, but I was determined.  I took out my fork and worked it expertly under the shell for leverage, and with a bit of determined effort, the tail sprung free.  It rose, as if in slow motion, higher and higher as it flew beyond our table, past the next, across a third, and plopped with a thud onto the floor before sliding into the corner.  It’s at this moment that my wife swears tears came to my eyes.  I still remember the song that was playing at that exact instance.  “What do you think I would do at this moment . . . if I could just hold you again.”

A lesser man with lesser passions might have given up, broken by fate and cruel lyrics.  But I am no ordinary man.  A quick survey proved the room was empty.  No guests.  No waiters.  Just me and my wife.  Then I saw the rinsing bowl that came with her clams and immediately knew what I had to do.  In a flash, I retrieved that magnificent beast from the floor, washed it in some clam water, and had the best lobster of my life.