From the deep, dark, cold waters come the hard, sharp, scratchaddy, mondosects, whose anttenae, when I face them through the glass walls of the mondoquarium at the supermarket, always, always, bring to mind the please- don’t-hurt-me, deep, liquid eyes, of my sweet, departed, anxiously aberrant border collie, Ida.
The lobster and the jelly fish got into a nasty fight.
Said the lobster, “Every word you spit from your source of spite
Bounces off me and sticks to you
Cause I am rubber and you are glue.”
In Amagansett, New York there is a lobster roll shack. I’d heard about it. Anticipation pumped through my veins. As we passed it on Route 27, heading to the outer east point of Long Island, I felt long, sticky lobster tentacles reach out and wrap themselves around my innermost, my most desirous, self. Alas, that shack was closed for the season.
Well, I had to eat my jaded thoughts. Had we hit the iconic lobster roll shack on Route 27, we would not have discovered Duryea’s, around the pond, down a winding road, set alone nearly, in a beachy, villagey, hilly, Montauk cottage cluster.
And did we feel smug. And snug. And happy. At Duryea’s the menu reads “Lobster Salad Roll”, a precision that cued purity. As limited as my lobster roll expertise may be, I do know that the lobster should be essentially plain – no mayonnaise, no celery, no salady stuff. And I do love a lobster salad roll. At the shore. In the wind. This lobster salad roll was so delicious.