Craig and I stood with my brother around the island in my mother’s kitchen during the holidays eating fresh raw oysters out of a plastic gallon bucket from the local seafood market. A few glass bowls sat scattered across the speckled laminate full of cocktail sauce. No one needed to stretch beyond a casual arm’s length to dip the soft, slippery bivalves into the Tabasco-spiced concoction. Mom, parked in front of the stove a few feet away from us, poured the liquor from another gallon bucket of oysters into her gumbo pot as she labored over her oyster soup. The rich aroma of butter and green onions softened as the oyster water filled the pot and steam rose like a scented halo from its depths.
“This is so wrong,” Craig admonished with a smile after eating four or five oysters in quick succession. “I’ve watched them shuck oysters at Dragos (a favorite New Orleans oyster bar) and it is no easy feat.”
Kyle agreed, spearing another oyster from the bucket and sucking it into his mouth. The oysters, plump with flavor and as fresh as I’ve ever tasted defeated us after some time and we left more than we thought we would floating in the bottom of the container. Satisfied, we still looked forward to the evening when we would taste oysters anew, more firm and meaty from their bath in the creamy soup. I left the kitchen with a glass of water to check on Rem and returned to find more family members huddled around the island. Dad and Andrew joined Kyle and Craig with Lauren and Miren darting in and out. The soup, simmering on its own, enabled Mom to swiftly whip up other house favorites. A bowl of crab dip and a tray of crackers soon replaced the oyster paraphernalia that vanished from the island.
“I know you’ll want to eat some seafood while you’re in town,” Mom remarked later, brushing off the various seafood-filled dishes she’d already served us. “Dad and I will take you to our new neighborhood place tomorrow.” Louisianians know that there is a difference between the seafood that one eats in homes and the seafood consumed at restaurants, even if the dishes look and taste remarkably similar. At the Speckled T, Craig ate his fill of fried catfish and shrimp that should not be confused with the poor boys we grabbed at Bogey’s on a subsequent busy day because, in Louisiana, fried seafood on a plate is different from fried seafood on French bread dressed with lettuce and mayonnaise. When in Rome…
A lovely, cool day spent under a clear blue sky at the zoo with my brother Kraig’s family and Mom and Dad progressed into a New Year’s Eve dinner at a long standing Asian restaurant on the North Shore. Trey Yuen, self described as a beautiful oriental palace, boasts high end stock catalog Chinese decor. The seafood, however, is all local and compliments the Asian preparation and sauces in a most delectable way. Large, Louisiana shrimp enhanced the rich broth of the wonton soup I shared with Rem. Craig and I ordered the Tung Cho plate: a stack of crawfish, shrimp and fish doused in a dark brown, spicy, sweet sauce.
We miss the availability of fresh fish and seafood in our mountain town and try to condense our consumption within the span of our visits back home. Occasionally, a friend of ours brings fresh shrimp from the North Carolina coast after long week-end trips. These offerings are savored and rationed. I make a rich shrimp stock to freeze and then we divide up the tails into potential etouffees, strudels and gumbos that we freeze with hope that they will last until our friend’s next visit.
Our other option for fresh fish or seafood lies in the quick, mountain trout that swim our streams and rivers. Unfortunately, two things work against us in this option. Although Craig enjoys fly fishing, the current pace of our life leaves Craig no time for his hobby. Secondly, when he does fish, Craig prefers the streams that require him to release the fish back into the water. We settle for heavily seasoned farmed salmon and wild tuna from foreign seas and hope, between bites, that Mom and Dad will bring the ice chest of boiled crawfish that usually accompanies them on spring visits or the pounds of Louisiana crabmeat and crawfish tails that Mom will stack in our freezer to satiate our palates until our next seafood binge in Louisiana.
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