This post may be subtitled: My husband, The Lobster Slayer.
On our honeymoon (three days in Maine), we ate lobster at every meal except breakfast. One of these excursions (to a trailer, a little off the beaten path) resulted in a combined twenty-two mosquito bites. It was worth it, especially since the lobster roll contained no celery (blech. Sidebar: it figures that we would both dislike a calorie-negative food.).
So we decided to celebrate our last day before normal life resumes with a lobster feast, which required that Mr. O become the Lobster Slayer, since I am too squeamish to kill the crustaceans that I happily intend to eat.
(Check out Mr. O’s honeymoon wear!)
My father suggested that if Mr. O wishes to style himself the Lobster Slayer, he should wear his lobster pot on his head, a la Johnny Appleseed. Mr. O agreed, provided that he also gets to carry a trident.
This conversation took place in the car, as Mr. O and I were on our way to see The Expendables. Long story short: the lobsters safely stowed in the fridge were better actors. And writers.
(I know, I know — what did I expect? But how can you put that many famous faces in a movie and still come up short in the snappy dialogue category?)
The lobsters’ sacrifice was not in vain. We feasted on:
Followed, shortly thereafter, by:
Why strawberry pie with an oreo crust?
1. At Russo’s (oh how we love thee), we bought 8 pounds of strawberries for 2 dollars. Not a typo.
2. When I was about to ask Mr. O if he would prefer graham cracker or oreo crust (those who know me know that I (a) hate regular pie crust and (b) never make my own pie crust), he asked “can you make it with the oreo crust?”
Yes, yes I can. And did. There are, you note, no pictures of the pie after it was cut and topped with more whipped cream than a person should really eat on a Sunday evening. This is because the pie fell apart into a mass of gooey strawberries and soggy crust when it saw the pie-slicer coming.
However, it still proved delicious — a successful failure. Just like Apollo 13.