My best friend's folks have a place on Isle of Palms, outside of Charleston. After a recent spell by the seaside they ascended into the North Carolina mountains with a cooler of singles; the contents boldly competing with giddy anticipations of a waning holiday season. We were generously invited to the feast.Our friend Ben ended up as shucking station Captain, while us party goers swooped in like birds, grabbing half shells and sliding the silky contents down our throats (eyes closing, sea essence finding marrow).
Children played, golden pilsners eagerly swallowed, while our bellies filled with tokens from the deep.
Poetry was born from feasts like these. The sea momentarily transplanted to the smokey mountains, the mountain folk momentarily transplanted to the sea. It is a lovely thing- this being in two places at once, and all due to a heap of humble-seeming mollusks nestled on ice.
The evening dwindled swiftly, perhaps due to sleepy kids, perhaps in part to the "warming effects" of such fare. An ode to the oyster: a ration of festivity. love tonic. food for the soul.
