Summer memory

It was the best lobster dinner we ever had.
And it was the cheapest.
Summer months prompt memories of summers past.
It was probably 1970. I had graduated from college and faced an uncertain future.
Connie hadn’t graduated yet, but her future was just as uncertain.
We were engaged, but we weren’t entirely certain about that.
And so, that uncertain summer, we found ourselves for a few days in Maine.
I had borrowed my father’s Ford station wagon, and we had driven up to see Connie’s college roommate, Kath, who was waiting tables at a restaurant along the Maine coast.
It might have been Rockport. It might have been Lewiston.
Memories fade after time.
But what doesn’t fade is that lobster.
We had arrived in late afternoon and ended up sleeping on the floor of an apartment Kath was sharing with a couple of other waitresses.
But the next day was her day off, and she was determined that we should have the true Maine experience.
The three of us piled into the station wagon and drove, first of all, to the fish market.
Kath, because of her restaurant connection, knew the guys there. So soon we were off with three “chicken lobsters,” lobsters small enough that one constituted more than enough for a single serving.
Our destination was Acadia National Park, which was just down the road.
At this point, Connie and I — as flatlanders — had no real clue what was coming next.
We put our trust in Kath, who behaved as if she had been raised in Maine in spite of the fact she’d only been there a month or so.
And sure enough, Kath delivered.
At the entrance, she had me buy a bundle of firewood.
Then she steered us to a picnic table along the side of the road. The lobsters were in a cooler in the back, along with a few things to drink. But we had no cooking utensils, no plates, no napkins, and no clue what we were doing.
We did have a bucket.
Kath handed it to me and pointed me in the direction of the sea. She and Connie started a small fire while I set off.
At Acadia, the Atlantic slams in against a wall of rocks. It’s not someplace you’d go swimming. But it did provide a good source of salty seawater.
I scooted down the rocks with the bucket, timed the waves that were crashing around me, and scooped up some of the Atlantic.
By the time I got back, the campfire was roaring. Kath and Connie had positioned some rocks so that the bucket could be placed over the fire and the seawater brought to a boil.
After that, it was curtains for the lobsters and shortly after time for lunch.
We used stones to break the shells and my Swiss army knife to pry out the juiciest pieces of lobster meat we’d ever been privileged to enjoy.
By the time we were finished, we were a sticky, smelly mess. And Connie and I were running late for a party her parents were throwing.
I drove as fast as the station wagon would allow, but we were still late. And when we rolled in, we smelled like the sea and the best lobster picnic imaginable.
No one complained, though.
I suspect they were envious.[[In-content Ad]]