My husband loves seafood. And since “loves” isn’t really a strong enough word, but I can’t come up with a better one, enter picture above. These are oysters that I picked up at the grocery store the other day, brought them home and as my husband is shucking them he notices some gross (and bloody) things on the shells that look like calcified larvae of some sort, or perhaps just worms.
Now I’ve always liked seafood, and I’ve grown to love it since I got married. While the untrained observer might attribute that to marital bliss, the honest reason is that seafood is one of the two things my husband cooks. He’s always happy to shuck, pick, clean, bread, fry, grill… whatever, any kind of seafood, and food tastes a special kind of good when you were the one sitting around the whole time it was being prepared saying, “You don’t need any help? Good, I’ll just have another beer then.”
However, once the words, “some kind of bloody larvae on the oysters” are uttered, I’d prefer to eat celery or even bark dust for dinner, thanks. Not so for my husband. Here’s how it happened:
Husband: You’re really not going to eat any?
Me: Are you crazy? The kids are not eating that either.
Husband: Well, I’m cooking them… I won’t eat them raw.
I’m sorry, that doesn’t make me feel any better. He did eat his oysters (a rare treat I admit, but jeez…) and thankfully he didn’t get sick or die or even just swell up like a balloon temporarily. But I’m still glad the kids and I settled for the pan-fried Cod.