The Lobster Lover
Last night I dreamt of lobsters --hearty Maine lobsters. Succulent crustaceans with large cutter and crusher claws, tails filled with meat beneath a rigid carapace.
Only those who harbor a fastidious nature desire sautéed lobster, lobster Alfredo, baked stuffed lobster, or any of the other variations.
A true afficinado knows that only when you crack the claws and body with a nutcracker, when you suck the meat from the legs, when you break open, unhinge, the carapace and seek the small bits of lobster meat, when you draw out the meat from the tail, and when you pile the shells in a bucket or tray --only then can you claim to love lobsters.
To take the easy way is to relinquish the title of true lobster lover.
Only those who harbor a fastidious nature desire sautéed lobster, lobster Alfredo, baked stuffed lobster, or any of the other variations.
A true afficinado knows that only when you crack the claws and body with a nutcracker, when you suck the meat from the legs, when you break open, unhinge, the carapace and seek the small bits of lobster meat, when you draw out the meat from the tail, and when you pile the shells in a bucket or tray --only then can you claim to love lobsters.
To take the easy way is to relinquish the title of true lobster lover.
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