Article and Art by Stella Epstein
Pennsylvania nights are hot and sticky. The sun has gone down, but has warmed the night like it warmed the slate rocks. I lay on my mom's twin bed, perspiring. Levi lies by the window in Uncle Dan's twin bed. It is 10:30 or 2:00 am. Neither of us can sleep because, despite the air pushing at us from the two industrial-sized fans, the scent of lobster bisque still lingers.
Every summer, we have a lobster night. Some families do a big thing, where they invite other families, and there is crab and salted butter. Our family does not do that. My mom loves seafood; it fulfills her in a way that nothing else does. Only seafood can scratch this itch or bring completion to a soul. I think that everyone has something like that. This completing love can be many things, and can be multiple for each person. But since my mom gets lobster once every two years, it becomes a priority. Since she has not been able to give lobster her love for so long, it is necessary to dedicate an evening to eating. My dad loves deep-dish pizza, Levi loves a perfume that smells like money, and I think I am still looking for what will bring me that “puzzle fit” feeling. Anyway, when there is lobster, Mom disappears.
She becomes Vanessa, my mom in her youth, running wild in the tri-state area. Picking blueberries, jumping in lakes, sneaking out of cabins at night to swim the sweat off, and tasting the brine. In Colorado, seafood isn't the same. The overnight trucks take the saltiness out of the oysters, and the “living” king crabs at H-Mart are dead. Vanessa loves real seafood, so when it is lobster night, I know that I will be taking care of myself — because my mom loves me year-round, and this is the time she needs to love something else. There are times when too much love can be given to one person or thing, and a shift in love can revitalize a relationship.
The summer heat takes me out of my mind and reminds me of what has just happened. It was lobster night. We start at Weis Market, where my aunt chooses the best lobsters. I don’t know how she tells the difference, because they all look the same to me, but she always finds ones that are better than the rest. We don’t need to buy anything else, because everyone will eat the lobster but me.
I am a vegetarian in a family of meat lovers, so family vacation is constrained by my inability to digest dairy, meat, and general distaste for the finer places with mushroom oil and dishes that still have eyes. My dislike of meat doesn’t come from some moral high ground; sure, Big Meat is destructive, but I became a vegetarian in 4th grade because a girl I had a crush on was a vegetarian, and I already just didn’t like how meat tasted. The appeal of sausage was never there. Because of my specific tastes in a family with an overall adventurous palate, I am frequently the one who starts food-related fights on vacation. We will be going to dinner, and the only option for me is something with mozzarella, usually a pizza, or a salad that I will have to order with chicken on the side. By this point in the day, I am already tired, and the fallout of my argument tends to be that I will get takeout, while the rest of the family dines elsewhere. But for tonight, where there are no restaurants to go to, I will have some beans, and Aunt Kristen will end up cooking a pie or a breakfast cake, either of which will make an excellent pairing.
The cooking begins. Uncle Dan brings the water in a large metal stove-top pot to a boil. Then, he puts the lobsters in, one by one, slowly so the water doesn’t splash out. I hate this part. The lobsters are still alive, and I imagine they feel the hot water outside their shell, heating their flesh, and as it seeps into the cracks between their shells, they are boiled alive. I feel this pain as if it is my own. I wouldn’t describe myself as particularly empathetic, but I hate the idea of a slow death. So, I feel for the lobsters who are stuck in a pot that is killing them over the course of a few hours. My mom has yet to succumb to the lobster madness, so she goes on a walk around the lake with us, then for a swim in the unheated pool. We get back to the house, and the boiling water has transformed the kitchen into a sauna. The room above the kitchen, which happens to be mine, is now muggy. The steam from the boil has wiggled up through the floorboards and into my room. The fan blowing from the door just blows in more steamy, lobster-scented air, and doesn’t disrupt the airflow around my bed. I can feel the sweat sticking my shirt to my back as I lie down, and know I need to be somewhere other than my room, which has become a temporary lobster sauna.
I go outside to escape the smell. Lying on the thick carpet of the forest, I smell the leaf decay and hear the wind rustling the tops of the trees. When I go back inside, dinner will be ready, which means Mom will be gone. In an attempt to prolong the inevitable, I go on another walk. Down the hill from the cul-de-sac, I go to the bog. The air is always cooler here, and in the absence of any cars or other human noises, I can hear a creek running somewhere in the weeds. I wander through the bog until I find a bench forgotten by those who made it, left to rot, but still sturdy enough to sit on. Here I can see the red-winged blackbird, and hear the Northern waterthrushes call. Once I see the fireflies start to come out, I know it is time to head back, so I turn around and walk up the hill into the growing dusk. It is time for the feast to begin.
We sit at the kitchen table, Levi next to me, Mom and Dad across from us, and Aunt Kristen and Uncle Dan at the ends of the table. In the middle lies a heap of red shells. The tails and claws are sitting in butter and corn. There are rolls, red potatoes, and a large bowl of salad. Before me, there is a bowl of beans, rice, and diced tomatoes from a can.
Mom makes herself a plate, and I see the delight on her face. It disturbs me. Mom is gone now; she is consumed by the plate in front of her. The act of breaking open the lobster will not disturb her, nor will the smell that will stick in my hair for days, or the meat that was alive just a few hours ago. If she just loved eating the lobster, maybe I could excuse her, but she loves tearing it apart personally. How can something this upsetting, gross, and disgusting bring her so much joy?
It’s Levi's first time having lobster, so Mom teaches him how to eat it. How to crack the tails, slurping, and how much lemon you need. I watch him get better, the tails come apart more neatly, he gets less on his shirt, and he enjoys every bite. Mom describes it like treasure hunting, looking for the best bite in the bunch of lobsters. When I watch her teach Levi, I see the same happiness I see when she braids my hair or makes dinner with me. This, right now, is more than just sharing a meal. She is bearing her soul to Levi, teaching him what she has learned. While she watches him experiment with her advice, I see Levi as an extension of her. The time they have spent together, and now, as he engages in this deep, treasured love of hers, he is getting closer to her.
There is joy at this table. It is coming from the lobster and spreading to those eating it. Together, my family is working hard to be rewarded with a salty, buttery bite and to connect over the experience of treasure hunting. No matter how small the reward may be, less than a full mouthful after cracking a claw, my family relishes the whole prospect. Sitting there, surrounded by the sounds of slurping mouths and breaking claws, I remember all the times when Mom would share herself with me. We watch movies from her childhood, she takes me out for pastries when I have a bad day, and always lets me get in bed with her when I feel lonely. I see what she has sacrificed for me, and now, fourteen years into lobster fest, I finally understand this love. Right now, her love for lobster goes beyond temporary consumption and into engaging with her family.
“Hey Mom, do you wanna watch a movie tonight?”