Oysters and Hot Sauce: Who Knew?

Usually, we drove all night, so our four kids would sleep for at least part of the nine-hour drive. Around midnight, quiet finally nestled around us, although my children swear they never slept for even one second on any of our many drives to North Carolina. Gary and I looked forward to those late-night drives, our low voices creating a cocoon, our faces cool in the night air, our journey seemingly guided by the luminous stars suspended above. 

"Did you see it? The falling star?" Gary asked, though I never did. He's always been luckier than I in the star gazing department. Still, together we seemed to have more than most, sailing through the night in our red Astro van, holding hands between our seats, our elbows resting on the small tv/vcr combination Gary jerry-rigged for the kids' movies and Nintendo system.

 

 

Our first stop was the Duck Deli, a tiny breakfast/sandwich/barbecue place, for big white plates of bacon, eggs, and the greatest home fries in Currituck County. In the very old days before Corolla grew big enough to have its own grocery stores, we would have stopped at the Piggly Wiggly or the Food Lion in Kill Devil Hills before we turned left on Highway 21. Balancing a bag on each of our laps, others wedged between our feet, we made our way to Atlantic Avenue, where our family owned a house.

My heart sensed the left turn on Atlantic towards the water. Sometimes we couldn't yet see the ocean, but we could always hear it. In that second, when I heard the push and pull of the waves, life sweetened. But, oh my, in the early days when the girls were toddlers and the boys still so young, the next few hours were full of up-and-down-the-stairs work for my husband and me. Schlepping the suitcases and groceries...unpacking both...making beds...guiding legs and arms into swim suits...coating wiggling bodies with sunscreen...and then...AND THEN! the beach.

We'd run down the dune, the dry sand so hot that our feet propelled forward on their own. We moved in tandem toward the green and grey marbleized sea, our toes on the frothy wave line, waiting for the first rush of cold water. All I'd carried on my back the past year slid from me, crumbling into the fine beige sand.



Between the three of us sitting in the booth at Mitchell's Fish Market today, two are headed to North Carolina and one to Vermont, two of us for a fleeting seven days and the other for a lovely collection of weeks at her family home in New England. While we talked about our upcoming fall classes and our children, our minds turned toward the promise of the sea.

"I convinced Jamie to try oysters the last time we were here," our friend Marilyn said, as we looked over the menu. "I'm going to order some, and we can share them."

Shaking my head, I admitted I'd never eaten oysters, describing the tipping of a cold, slippery oyster from the shell to the back of my throat as outside of my culinary comfort zone.

"Actually, I liked them," Jamie interrupted. I'd been imagining her just getting through the experience, holding her nose, puckering her lips in distaste.

Almost convinced, I nearly changed my mind when our waiter confided that he can't manage tossing back a raw oyster. His suggestion of sandwiching the oyster between Saltines put me off even more.

"Wouldn't that involve chewing?" I asked.

Last night,  I discovered I'm not as old as I thought I was. For the past ten months, I've been telling people I'm a year older than I actually am. This time, Gary happened to hear me. Wearing a sideways grin, he pointed out my mistake.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really."

Hmmm. So, I guess I've got a do-over. Perhaps I should live this one a little more daringly? I decided to jumpstart my extra year by trying oysters.

Marilyn and Jamie already had some on their plates. Squeezing lemon over the white flesh, they discussed which of the three sauces to use. The jagged shell between my thumb and finger, I moved my oyster from the bed of crushed ice to my plate. A squeeze of citrus and a smear of hot sauce, and I was ready.

Here's what I learned: eating an oyster is almost like doing a shot. Bring it to your mouth, tilt your head back, close your eyes if you want, swallow hard, and wait for the bang.

Oh, my!  I wasn't prepared for the clean, fresh taste of the oyster, heighted by the sharpness of the hot sauce. The oyster tasted like Corolla felt.

And then I had another.

 

.