All my life I’ve avoided live squirming things—those of sea and salt. Convinced everyone, even myself, I was allergic. Swore my stomach would recoil, turn tops, if I even tasted one.
The stench of ammonia and algae, veins and bulging eyes, the raw pink flesh, the wet and slime.
Still, I was drawn to their shellfish skin, their sheer iridescence—the throbbing, pulsating.
The first time an oyster lay on my table, I stared, eyes gaping at the halves, anticipating the feast.
Clumsily, I twisted and squeezed, trying to force them from their silvery shell.
I waited for the waiter to instruct me: Coax the hinges to open, lay it down on a cloth surface,
I had only seen people in movies prying to expose the delicate center, then lifting shell to mouth, tilting their heads back in ecstasy.
Gently separate with a utensil, slide your hands along its edges until it pops up from its shell. It will be swelling and ready.
I lifted the membrane to my lips and let my tongue travel the ocean. Breathed.
There will be a rush of salt and sea; the flesh should be firm in texture, brimming with natural juices.
I flipped over the shell to reveal a pearl, shimmering and marvelous in its ridges and imperfections.
Oysters should be tasted with your nose, she said.
Breathe. Just breathe.