White Trash Lobster Night

by Cookie



Yesterday was an average Wednesday.  Except for the morning part where I had to sit drinking sugary drinks and get bled from the same hole in my arm every hour.  And the starvation before that.

I decided to pull out a couple of lobsters out of the freezer for dinner and let them defrost while I was teaching.  Yep.  Lobster for dinner on a Wednesday night because we are that classy.

The truth is I had bought them a while back on sale for a special occasion that never seems to happen.  So I thought fuck it.  Let’s eat em.

And so began White Trash Lobster Night.

Just for a little background information, I have been bugging Husband for years about getting a lobster for a pet.  We used to have all kinds of fish tanks in the house and I thought they were just the neatest little guys.  I was also a vegetarian for many years, in another life.  So I still have some unresolved feelings about eating things while they still have a face.

Anyway, these lobsters were whole.  I’d never cooked a whole lobster before, so I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with them.  I was intending to just chuck them in a pot of boiling water for a while when Husband asked aren’t you going to clean them first?

It hadn’t actually occurred to me.  Plus I was having a little trouble with the smell as it was, and their faces still being attached.  My plan was to get them in the pot as fast as possible without having to make eye contact.  So he volunteered to do it.  Clean them, that is.

I couldn’t believe it.  But he really really really likes lobster.  And he must, because at the lake, I’m the one who cleans the fish and hands him the fillets to be bagged and frozen.  So I hand them over with a giant meat cleaver and suggest just hacking off the tails and leaving it at that.

Are you nuts?  he says.  There’s a lot of meat in those claws.

Now I know that when he makes a bold statement like that he’s gonna do what he thinks is best.  So when I look over and he has the first one taken apart and there is green shit leaking all over the place and it looks like he is doing some weird Nazi surgical experiment, it’s more than my pregnant body can handle.

I excuse myself to take a shower before I never eat food again.  I was having flashbacks to my university zoology labs and there was no way I was going to eat those fucking things if I didn’t get out.

He did a good job actually.  And an even better job at clearing up the guts by the time I got downstairs.

So I toss a salad and make some garlic toast and set the table for dinner. I pluck the little fucker’s tails and claws out of the pot and bring them over.

Where’s the nutcrackers? he asks.

I have no fucking idea.  We’re not exactly a chestnut roasting over a fire type of family.  We’re more of a paper cups and beer breed over here.

No problem.  I’ll go get some pliers from the garage.

Cause that’s how we fucking roll around here.  We are solution oriented, matter a fact type of folk.

So I sit down at the table.  With my maternity sweatpants that won’t stay up around my belly, and my too short tank top letting my gut hang out all over the place.  One bowl of garlic butter for dipping, one set of pliers for cracking and a giant roll of paper towel on the table to clean up the aftermath.

And I have one bite only to discover that my pregnant body will absolutely not eat this fancy feast of ours.  The baby wants it not.  I don’t know if it’s the taste or the smell, or the fact that I saw it’s face before we cooked it.  But I am not eating this thing.  Period.

So I trot over to the freezer pop a little treat in the microwave and return triumphantly to the dinner table 2 minutes later.

With a pizza pop.

So much for our fancy meal, I says to Husband.

It’s ok.  I think lobster used to be something poor people ate years ago anyway. 

That’s why I married him.  He always knows just what to say to make me feel better.  Whether we’re white trash once in a while or not.  For better or worse, right?