August 11: Happy As a Clam

Before my India trip, I have a lovely two weeks in Woods Hole on Cape Cod -- my favorite town in the world. I am here now, renting a truly kick-ass house with a great kitchen (which is the most important point) and we've been cooking wonderful food. Besides cooking, it's phenomenally hard to make onesself do much work -- I was going to do all this writing yesterday, and instead I caved instantly when Jane called me up to go out on a boat and hang out on Devil's Foot Island.

We collected clams (or quahogs as those who grew up in Woods Hole insist -- "clams" are reserved for soft shells) -- which is the true lazy person's kind of hunting. You walk around in the mud digging with your feet, while holding your drink in one hand, and occasionally leaning over to pick up a clam when you stub your toe on one. Lovely.

We threw the clams on the grill, and ate them after they'd been cooked for approximately a minute -- so fresh and sweet! And then I debated over whether or not to take the remaining clams home to make chowder, or allow them to live another day. This was a slow discussion, taking place as it did in the heat over ice tea spiked with white wine.

"Should I let them go?"

Pause.

"I mean, I've given them a chance to get away, and it's not like they're really running."

Pause.

Jane: "Dumb clams. It's survival of the fittest. You'd be weaning out the weak."

Pause.

Me: "Yeah, I mean do those look like clams who are trying to get away?"

Pause.

Jane: "They deserve to die."

So I collected them up. My cup runneth over with clams -- and now they're in the chowder I'm eating today. Yay!