“Always pick one that’s lively.  That way you can tell it’s fresh.”  That was the first lesson I learned from my Dad about choosing the perfect beast for the feast.  Dissecting and devouring lobsters has been part of my life since I was ten.  My father had a great fondness for the delicacy and taught me how to get every last succulent morsel out of its shell.  The waiters and chefs at the best dining establishments knew him well, and he was welcomed with open arms when he arrived with his entourage.  The Oyster Bay in Jersey City, the Tavern in Newark and Hackney’s in Atlantic City were his favorites.

Each summer when I was between the ages of ten and seventeen, our family spent a month at Seaside Park in a little bungalow that was half a block from the beach and half a mile from the dock where the fishermen brought in their daily catch.  Three or four times a week my father would go to the dock and for fifty-nine cents a pound pick up several lobsters right off the boat.  He liked the big ones, no smaller than two and a half pounds, and  he bought the monsters of ten and twelve pounds when they were available.  The largest one we ever had was twenty-two pounds, but it had a withered claw; so although it was the biggest, it wasn’t the best.  My Mom had a huge vat of water boiling on the stove when Dad got back with his  “catch.”

 He enjoyed the experience even more when he shared it with others;  frequently there would be twelve to fifteen people crowded around the small newspaper-covered table chatting, laughing and eating lots of lobster (and sometimes crabs and clams as well).  Dad saved the membranes from the claws, preserved them with shellac, and collected them as trophies of our gastronomic pleasures.

Fast forward about twenty years.  I’m married with two children.  My father was no longer with us, but I took the task of carrying on his legacy very seriously.  I introduced my husband Ed to my family’s love of lobster early in our relationship, and he took to it as well.  One summer he was completing the third and final session of an Executive Development Program at Dartmouth.  We heard they had great lobster in those parts and were eager to compare them to the NJ variety, so we decided to take a camping vacation to Cape Cod.  The plan was for Ed to drive our  station wagon  with all the camping gear up to New Hampshire and then for me and the children to take the Greyhound Bus from the Port Authority in New York City, meet him in Hanover and then continue on to The Cape.  A lobster dinner cooked al fresco was the highlight on our vacation menu.

We had previously camped with a pop-up trailer, but this would be our first attempt at tent camping.  I was up for the challenge.  Of course we would have to pack efficiently.  We would need pots and pans, cooking utensils, and a basin for washing dishes.  It was imperative that our gear be multi-functional.  A large roasting pan with a cover could serve as camp sink, storage container and most importantly: lobster steamer.

Our preparations and travel plans proceeded as scheduled.  Ed completed his classes, and the children and I were there for the certification ceremony.  Now it was time to enjoy our vacation.  Approaching The Cape, we found a lobster pound and took our “pot” inside.  We told the man behind the counter that we wanted the largest lobster that would fit into it and spotted a candidate swimming in the tank.  The man lifted it out and and weighed it—ten pounds on the nose.  Perfect!  By tucking in the claws and folding under the tail, it just made it into the allotted space.  The price was three dollars and forty-nine cents a pound.  Definitely more than the fifty-nine cents my Dad paid when I was a child, but we felt it was worth it.

When we got to the campground and selected our site, the children went to explore the facilities, and Ed went to the general store to get the other provisions we needed for our celebratory meal.  I was left to cook the feast.  I had done this many, many times before—no problem.  I filled the pot with water from the nearby pump and put it on the stove to boil.  Meanwhile, I set the table for dinner.  Just because we were in the woods did not mean we couldn’t have the amenities to which we had become accustomed.  No paper plates for us–no sir!  I had brought Abercrombie and Fitch picnic plates, utensils and stemware, cloth napkins and even candles.   The long wooden table held the Coleman camp stove at one end and was set for fine dining at the other. We were “glamping” even before there was a name for it.

The water in the pot started to bubble, and I took the lobster out of its brown paper wrapping.  It was strong and feisty–a good sign–but there were thick rubber bands around its massive claws, so I knew it couldn’t bite me.  The moment had arrived.  Ready, Set, Into the Pot You Go!  But the lobster would not cooperate.  It stretched its claws and tail to their full length and width and refused to be plunged into the steaming caldron.  My husband would be back in a few minutes expecting to  have the feast that had cost a significant chunk of our vacation budget.  I had to get the damn thing into the pot.  In desperation I realized the claws had to come off.

I had never dismembered a living creature before, so I started to cry, but had to be brave.  I held the lobster down on the table with a towel and broke off first one claw and then the other and threw them into the boiling water.  Relieved of the weight of its claws, the lobster got up on its eight spidery legs and scampered across the table, knocking the place settings askew, and then dove off the other end onto the grass.  After a brief moment of shock, I realized our dinner was getting away.  I grabbed the towel and went in pursuit.  Boy was he fast!  By the time I had rallied my senses, he was into the woods and his dark green shell made him hard to spot in the underbrush.  I saw some movement and threw the towel over him, but lunging forward to grab him, I slipped and he got away.  The second attempt was successful.  I scooped him up along with a handful of pine needles and dried leaves and ran back to the steaming pot.  Still very upset about what I had done, I threw him in on top of his claws and slammed the lid over him so he could not escape again.

I was standing there sobbing when my husband returned.  “How’s it going?” he asked, oblivious to my distress.  I lifted the cover to show him.  “Oh you even brought some seasoning,” he said, referring to the floating debris.  The story had a happy ending for us if not for the lobster.  We did finally enjoy our meal:  fresh steamed lobster with drawn butter, corn on the cob and sliced tomatoes accompanied by a bottle of white wine.   The unfortunate experience did not diminish our appetite for the delicacy, and I learned a valuable lesson:  the claws can’t move without the body, but the body sure can move without the claws.

I’ve been hiding out from PETA ever since.  Please don’t tell them where to find me.