Grilled oysters, my friends. Plump, freshly-shucked oysters sizzled on the grill for mere seconds before the shells are whisked from the grill and the chef drizzles with a lemon-garlic butter.
The Sam Adams Wellfleet Oyster Stout, the dark, thick-as-bread oyster beer that's brewed with actual Wellfleet oyster shells. I could've drank 12. I may have drank 12. I regret nothing.
And then there's the raw oysters -- heaven in an oyster shell, that cool briny shot of oyster liquor and plump, salted oyster -- you will die, my friends.
Yes, readers. I have seen heaven. And heaven lies in the bottom of an empty oyster shell.
Come to Boston in October. See the sights. Walk the Freedom Trail. Get your chowder fix. And then make your pilgrimage to the Wellfleet Oysterfest and pay homage to the Oystergods.
They will not forsake you.
|My favorite shucker of the day -- please note his pink hat. Jayne from Firefly, right?|
|I know this picture is terribly out-of-focus. I'm okay with it. Because LOOK AT THEM.|
|My first Bloody Mary -- ever. |
Don't look at me like that.
Since this picture was taken I've become a Bloody Mary connoisseur.
But at the time? I hated tomatoes until this summer, remember?
So why would I ever want a drink with damn bloody tomatoes in them?
|Never understood the Cape appeal until I went there. One of the most stunningly beautiful places I've ever seen.|
Worth the pretentious reputation, I promise.
|Oh, please. I barely give you any mush on this blog. You can take a few Myspace kissing portraits.|
|My favorite picture of us...ever.|
Mainly because I look like I've just been electrocuted.
That's an insanely difficult look to pull off, friends.
I practice at home.
With a hair dryer.
And a bathtub.