When in New England...

When in New England, it's almost obligatory to eat lobsters. I have loved lobsters from the early days when my Dad would get in his required flight time by zooming up to Maine to buy a basket of lobsters to bring home. Callous little souls that we were, we'd have lobster races on the kitchen floor while the water came to a boil, then watch as Dad popped them headfirst into the pot and clapped on the lid.

This time, My Beloved's brother brought home the lobsters and cooked them while I made a tossed salad and melted butter with lemon juice.

On this trip to New England, I learned the trick of opening a lobster tail without scissors or a knife; straighten out the curling tail, press inward along the sides with both hands until you hear a sharp crack, then turn the tail so the stomach faces away from you and, hooking your fingers under the edge of the top shell, pull back toward yourself. Lift out the whole tail meat intact and you have a feast fit for a king.

These days, we can get Maine lobsters here on the west coast but they are never sweeter than when eaten within hours of capture and in sight of the water where they lived.