We’re really not shellfish kind of people. But when the father of your bride that was born and bred in the heart of Maine takes you to a lobster pound on the New England coast, you better cozy up to the idea of a big fat poky lobster for dinner.
I was a little nervous, to say the least.
The father, Ken, asked if I grew up in the kind of place that you have to kill the food you eat. Hmmm, can’t say that I did… So my first item of business when picking out my dinner was to resist the urge to look my lobster in the eye and actually give it a name. I failed on both accounts.
Everybody, meet Pokey. Pokey was my lobster. Or at least, until Pokey decided to snap at my face, then Pokey was thrown back into the water and we picked out a much friendlier lobster to eat for dinner.
We did not name this one, and he did not snap at Jeff’s face. He would do perfectly.
Dearest Ken: Thank you so much for treating us to such a lifetime experience and for teaching us how to tear open a lobster and eat it while growling like a lumberjack. That was definitely my favorite, if not most memorable, part of our entire trip to your awesome piece of the world. We love you guys.
Hugs,
Erin
