Sittin' on the dock of the bay
Every time I drive towards the coast, my stomach begins talking to me. At first, it whispers of shrimp, hauled off the boats, deveined and broiled, dunked in salted butter so rich it drips down my wrist. The my stomach growls about the fresh catch, cleaned while you wait, with the fish purveyor's suggestion on the perfect sauce to whip up. As I drive over the bridge to the island and roll back my sunroof to breathe in the salt air, my stomach roars about oysters, plucked and shucked, so fresh you can grab an oyster knife, pop the shell open and sip the meat.
I dream of months with an R in them. I plot oysters roasts in my dreams. And whenever I am near the coast, I visit the local seafood shop.
I love walking into the fish market and seeing the rows of shrimp in all their sizes. I adore walking around and seeing everything I need to cook the best fresh catch meal lining the shelves and knowing the people here know how to pack my purchase on ice so my seafood makes it home fresh, whether my house is four miles or four hours away.
My hometown favorite, Mott's Channel, has a window through which you can watch the guys in their white rubber boots descale and filet the fish. They take a moment from their banter and slicing to give you the inside story on what's looking good today.
Even the youngest ones.