Blanketing opinions that I'll probably regret soon.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Oysters Shucked This Month: One 5-Gallon Bucketful

They say that eating a raw oyster is like French-kissing the sea. I agree with them. This food has been eaten since the dawn of time and many people (like me) wax philosophically about them in the same way they would about a subject like sailing, love, music, or nature.

A few months ago I discovered that Cameron's Seafood up the street sells big raw Chesapeake oysters for $8.99 a dozen and I've gone nuts. They're supposed to taste best during the coldest months, and proof that this is true is the picture at right -- my collection of empty shells filling an entire 5-gallon bucket.

Shucking your own is no easy task -- and dangerous. Despite having shucked all those in this picture, I'm still not perfect and screw up a fourth of them. The oyster knife is more like a miniature crowbar that you wedge into the crustacean's hinge and wiggle until it's tight. This action takes a bit of muscle and patience, and it's easy to slip and jab it into your left hand. Once you have a tight fit, you bend the knife back and forth until you hear a nice "pop" -- a sound as solid and satisfying as a baseball hitting a catcher's mitt in the spring.

There have been some big ones that gave me a fight. Thank god the knife point is dull, otherwise I'd surely have stitches all over my left palm. Last night I fought one monster for a good five minutes and actually broke a sweat before he popped open.

Oyster-eaters must truly love life. Occasionally I've heard of people getting sick from eating raw ones, but this is no excuse for stopping altogether. Even if I got sick to the point of puking out my spleen, I'd still eat them.

(Youtube: How to shuck an oyster).
You are my hero LB.
You should do the same thing with condoms.
Pop them open with a knife?
Ahhhh...the sea made flesh. Carry on Mr. Brunner.

Hey, I should give you the GPS quadrants on my oyster shell dumping site. I’m starting my own reef/bed in the mouth of the West River. Every time I have shells I sail over this spot and dump ‘em out. Gotta get my hands on some spat bags…them I’ll be in business... we’ll in a few years or so.

Bar Pilar? 30-something sausage fest. I guess that makes sense.

I'm 35 and married. I go to bars to chat with friends and get well-made drinks -- not to bird-dog chicks and get wasted off Red Bull and vodka.
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