When my mother and I were recently, briefly in Boston, she wouldn’t try oysters. We’d been in New Hampshire at Toad Hall (see previous post), and that day Legal Harborside was our final destination before we headed out. We had just enough time for lunch before returning our rental car and catching our planes.
Like my mother, I too had never tried oysters before Legal, but with rare exception I am a seafood lover and always have been. When I was a kid, I once ate some 30 individual pieces of fish at a fish fry: bluegill, crappie, walleye, bullhead—whatever the catch had been from local ponds and the Mississippi, which was just down the road. Oh, my love for fish! Such gorging made me sick, to tell the truth, but after a year or so I was back on track as a fish loving fool.
Then there was the night I kicked this lopped-off, gray-brown catfish head the size of a softball. One of the dogs must have it hauled out of the neighbor’s garbage, and I—a good-natured, pre-adolescent boy—gave that sucker a swiftly running thwack! Only instead of a thwack! it was more of a spluuuugh . . . as my foot swept through that mushy head like it was rice pudding—all those fly babies staring up with disgust, that decomposing fish smell swimming into my nose even now, many years later as I recount the event.