Lobster

There are certain things I hold sacred. Historical accuracy in fiction isn't very high on that list. I allow for certain things to be misconstrued, washed over, or just flat out wrong, if the story is forwarded by the lack of accuracy. Whatever, I'm generally fine with the lack of historical fact checking in my television, movies, or books. Something got to me, however.

I've been watching this show, whose name I won't divulge at this moment, and they done fucked up. Not to go into to too much detail, but the show follows a bunch of rich white people in 17th century Europe (don't you FUCKING judge me), and there was a moment that got under my skin. It snaked it's way into my brain and I have to talk about it here, to a bunch of strangers (probably) who don't care one way or another.

So here's what happened: Two female characters are sitting at a large dinner table, the other seats populated by peers having conversations, conniving against those in power, and probably securing sex with complicated clothes involved. One of the women isn't eating, in fact, she's pouting about some bullshit. The other one, annoyed at the pouting, says "Oh, just eat a lobster and get over it!" and then pulls a lobster out of a communal lobster bowl and drops it on the pouters plate.

Ok. I got beef with this lobster nonsense.

1) Rich white people in the 17th century didn't eat lobster. In fact, they thought lobster and most other shellfishes were dirty peasant food for dirty peasants.
2) A boiled lobster (as this lobster was) is FAR too messy for a dinner party full of rich white people of that era. There is no way they would take the risk of mussing their faces, clothes, and perfumed hankies to break apart the hardened shell of the lobster in front of them. That's what the servants are for, they are already filth, after all, and no shelled lobster would ever be dropped in front of the master class.
3) And this is a small thing that ties into the other two: No claw crackers, mallets, or other shell cracking material were present. This is sinful. This show is retarded.

The scene ended after the pouter looks at the lobster in disdain. I have a special place in my heart for this particular food, as it has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I grew up on the New England coast, and lobsters were always around. We generally will boil them, these days, as nobody can figure out my grandmothers recipe for the baked/stuffed magic lobsters she used to make. In my family, we eat the entire damn thing. Not just the tails and claws. We rip apart the torso and pick every little bit of that bastard clean of meat. There is a bowl, empty at the outset of the meal, and overflowing with the broken, nay...demolished exoskeleton of the lobsters that we, as a group (always as a group) have ripped asunder with violence and melted butter for dipping.

One memory stands out. I was maybe 11 years old. Every Sunday we would have family dinner at my grandparents house. During the day, my grandfather and I would watch football or baseball games, and my grandmother would prepare a feast that could feed a county. Pasta, meatballs, a roast, a vegetable, home made sauce. That was the normal fare. If someone was in town visiting, or we had more than the usual crowd, or there was a sale, it was lobster night. And lobster night was a treat. Boiled, baked/stuffed, pasta with lobster sauce with the legs of the stuffed ones in the sauce, and their claws off to the side for extra lobstery goodness. It was epic.

One day, the normal lobster night preparations are being made, and the men are watching sports. From the kitchen we hear a crash. My grandmother was out doing something, so we rush in to see what had happened. The pot that was boil the lobsters was turned over, water spilling everywhere, the lid on the floor. Six lobsters, half dead and mostly red, were slowly crawling across the counter. They seeked a freedom from the boiling kettle, a destiny other than digestion, relief from the hot death that was becoming them. Then we scooped them back into the pot, refilled it with water, and put it back on the stove. We went back to the game. Another crash. We rush back to the kitchen. One lobster was still holding on to the hope of liberation. I watched the desperate crustacean crawl slowly away from the cauldron. Then my grandfather came in from outside, I hadn't noticed he had left, he grabbed the fleeing lobster, looked it in the eye and said "You...you're mine." He then put it back in the pot, affixed the lid, and put a brick on top of it all to secure the lobsters, and letting us get back to our game.

My grandfather was a great man. And he ate the shit out of that lobster.

SD