T Minus 8 Hours -OR- A Great Annual Occassion

Shells of Christmas Past...



I ask you...What else is a first generation Maine-iac scion supposed to do?

This year's lucky lottery winners are chilling on the pantry floor. Salivation has begun. This ritual, entering its 25th year under Rechtaw's roof and its 50th year overall honors the pulp/textile mill and railroad heritage of my ancestry. When lobster was a simple, abundant peasant food for coastal denizens; before becoming trendy high-brow fare.

My paternal grandmother would never consider cooking, let alone eating one. She was upper crust. Thankfully, her son shed any facade of good taste in favor of good eating. When he met, melded, married and dragged his orphan bride to Chicago she maintained her Pejepscot heritage, practicality and sensibility. I think of these as the finest gifts they gave to me. That and an appreciation for truncation of family tradition, as defined by their own fresh start.

In their honor I will bathe this year's catch. I will preach to my family the ancient tales with full embellishment.

Tomorrow, we will endure enjoy the contrast of pretense. Tonight we will pig out in our self-defined elegance.