Today was the oysters’ swan song. We ate the last few of the last batch we had in the fridge.
After spending a lifetime thinking of oysters as a luxury, and eating them rarely, in small quantities (except that time Kevin bet me I couldn’t eat three dozen), I have spent the last four months eating essentially as many as I wanted, whenever I wanted.
I was a little afraid this would dull my appreciation and, in the short run, it may have. Certainly, when I see oysters on a restaurant menu, they don’t call to me in exactly the same way. While I could still down three dozen, no problem, it probably wouldn’t be with the same relish that won me the bet.
This, though, is the joy of seasonality. Sure, I’ve eaten enough oysters to choke a horse over the course of four months, but now I’m going to go eight months without them. Or with very few of them, at any rate. I’ve got a few dozen stashed in the freezer, but they’re stew material. And I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to pay $2. per at a restaurant.
By the time October rolls around again, oysters on the half shell are going to be looking awfully good to me.