Stop Touching Things

"Miss! you can't touch the artwork..."
"He means you, too, G-ma"

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

I'd Die for "Rocky Mountain" Oysters?

The mighty oyster. Mother of Pearl. The World's Most Perfect food, according to Anthony Bourdain. Indeed, it seems like the oyster is a decadence worthy of sampling on my inaugural adventure onto Sugarloaf Mountain in Roosevelt National Park this last week. That's right, I was going to have oysters in the Rocky Mountains (rest assured they weren't going to be be Rocky Mountain Oysters!).

I have this habit of wishing for things that I wish I could do, and then allowing those wishes to come true. Not long ago, after hearing my friend Jo Jo Potato describe a meal her Chef Brother, The Former Twerp, Map Boy, Jeff prepared  for her, I wished I could travel to Colorado one day and sample some of his cooking.

After becoming fully embroiled in this little hobby of haute cusine, top chef, and eating "anything but hotdish", I began to wish I had the "Rocky Mountain Oysters"* to try the real thing. That little rocky nugget from the sea. I was, however, too chicken to order them in a restaurant.  Any number of embarrassing things could happen, the least of which being, I wouldn't like them and have to pay for them.

Can you see where this is going? That's right! Last week I traveled to Colorado for wedding! Jo Jo came along to help me drive and we made a stop at her brothers... and as we were wandering around Whole Foods, he suggested oysters!  I couldn't believe it, the man could read my mind!

This adventure would not be just a mere tasting, however.  It would start with learning how to shuck the motherf'ers. It is not easy, but with determination, Jo, Elizabeth, Jeff, and I got those puppies open with a butter knife. We just had to remember to "wiggle and twist.

The next thing would be to taste them. Jeff demonstrated everything from start to finish, so I was confident that I would be able to pull this feat off.  Open the shell, swoop around to loosen, squirt with lemon, tip back into the mouth, hold it there for a sec, and swallow. Easy.

I did it! And it was... amazing. It was like pouring the sea into your soul. The salty breeze wafted to your nose and the juice was like waves pouring down your throat. It was bright, fresh, and definitely not hotdish. It was a gorgeous experience and one that I will treasure, because it will be the last time I will ever eat an oyster. It turns out I'm allergic to oysters. Damn'.

Not long after the feast commenced, my upper lip started swelling and I was having a bit of difficult time breathing. We searched the house for some benedryl and I subsequently stopped swelling and then passed out from the medication. Luckily we didn't have to make the 30 minute drive down the switchback roads of the mountain into the nearest town. Coming from a food allergic family, my parents and sister almost had a heart attack when I told the story about how I had a allergic reaction up the mountains and promised my mom I wouldn't ever eat oysters again... at least without an epi pen near by.

Oh well! On to the next adventure!

*Supposedly, Rocky Mountain Oysters are some kind of deep fried testicle. So, I'm told.

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