Anyway, he'd see the fixings on the counter on his way out, cringe, and know he was better off at work. The smell alone.
The recipe: Smoked oysters on crackers with a dash of hot sauce. Best served with beer while wearing your grossest robe. I learned about it from a man named Tex, a twangy fellow who worked with an ex-boyfriend at an oil change shop.
This is exactly the kind of suspect junk I couldn't eat when I was preg. And then, when I wasn't anymore, I forgot all about it. Anyway, the important thing is that I remembered it, again, and here I sit with 3 ounces of Crown Prince Naturally Smoked Oysters, a box of Back to Nature Crispy Wheat Crackers, Sriracha and Lucid Dyno Pale Ale. The Pale Ale came in a gift bag from Fannie's wedding and only survived this long because it somehow got pushed behind a bunch of cans of prune juice in our refrigerator.
I am, of course, wearing the robe.
I bought the oysters yesterday and I was really excited about the prospect. But just 10 minutes ago, as I laid in bed playing Words with Friends against my brother (and roaring in delight at some big money rounds) listening to a soundtrack of The Girl's sleep sounds (as heard through a monitor) I wasn't really in the mood anymore.
Aren't oysters gross? I wondered.
I honestly couldn't remember. It'd been at least two years.
A: Yes-ish. And no. We had a term for this in high school: Dirty sexy. It was someone literally unattractive who seemed attractive. Example: Someone who transcended having a face mangled by hockey helmet acne.
These smoked oysters, I'd say, fit within the parameters of that metaphor.
Aside: Tonight while I was making dinner, The Girl lined four stuffed animals up on the bottom step. Then she laid each animal down. She covered Lamby with a kitchen towel. I couldn't tell if she was tucking him in or diapering him. Then she went down the line. "Elmo," she said, bent over and kissed him on the nose. Lamby, Snoopy, Rawr the Pink Teddy Bear. When she finished tucking them in, she did it again. Fiddle, semblance of a name, jibberish-ish conversation, kiss.
(I'm not sure where she learned this. Our bedtime routine is different than this. I'm also not sure how she knows what to do with a landline. The other day I took her into work and tried to type something while she sat in my lap. She picked up my phone, held it to her ear and said:
"Helwo?" She's obviously been sent here from the past so that she can study our ways, then go back in time and invent brain internet.)
Before the aside, we were in my bed where I'd just scored a 60-plus point word against Brother Pista.
I caved. Sometimes you have to pop the top of the oyster tin and let the fun follow. Write that down. Truth: I mangled the top of the oyster can and ultimately had to risk tin slits in my thumb while I jimmied the sucker with a butter knife. The first waft of smokey oyster smell told me I was doing the right thing. Though I spilled some oyster juice on the countertop and near the garbage can and that's why the cats have created a figure 8 loop that connects these droplets and my plate.
We were out of the traditional hot sauce, thus the Sriracha. A happy surprise. It's actually better. This beer, too. Yum. This is a good treat. This is a great treat. This robe is so gross.
Orin has returned. He's nosing at the Sriracha bottle. Now my beer bottle. Having favorite foods in common with my cat makes me feel like I have a pretty unsophisticated palate.