A road trip up the Maine Coast…doesn’t that sound nice? Doesn’t just the sound of the “Maine Coast” make you tingle with nautical delight? It should. I just got back, so I know. It is everything you want it to be. Especially the lobster.
Oh, the lobster. Whole lobster, lobster rolls, lobster bisque–we had it all. And it was all splendid. Ironically, though, we found ourselves needing to defend our lobster love. In the audiobook we chose for the car ride, Jim Gaffigan’s Food: A Love Story, Gaffigan waxes emphatic on his detestation of all seafood (I know, I know–shame). Josh and I quickly transitioned from giggling along with the book to sitting quietly, stone-faced, as we listened to his uninformed and pitiful persecution of God’s gifts from the sea. Of course, he is right about some things; lobster resemble large insects–sea bugs, as he calls them–and are prohibitively expensive pretty much anywhere but Maine. There is also the disgusting matter of digging through their abdomen gunk and sinew desperately hunting for lingering shreds of meat. Apart from this, though, his protests fell completely flat. Lobster is fabulous. Period.
In response to Gaffigan, I decided to write a poem about experiencing lobster. Enjoy.
Ode to a Lobster
There you were, looking out, unaware.
I saw you sitting there, banded. And I knew,
even then, we would be together
in delectable bliss.
I stood in a tiny room.
I gave my orders.
A lady plunged be-gloved hands into the tank, twice,
and passed the bucketed goods through the wall’s gap
to a man with a pot, and the fire.
One half hour to wait.
Out of the bag your noble sacrifice came, red and gleaming and steaming
with come-hither flare.
Aroma of the ocean on a moonlit night.
Crack. Crack. Gush.
White and succulent, plunged into butter clear,
the first bite.
Light, nutty, sea-salty,
there was never going to be enough of you.
You command all of my attention.
You demand my deep devotion.
I live in the moment for you, which is saying something.
Lobster, Lobster, you did not die in vain.