Early morning yesterday and I staggered downstairs in the bathrobe and mismatched pajamas to start the coffee. I noticed the large ice chest on the butcher block, but didn't think much of it. Until it moved...
Screaming and vaulting over the couch, I remembered that my housemate had brought back lobsters from his trip to Maine.
Kept the little suckers on ice until I got home (New boss. In this novel, The Devil Prefers an Aisle Seat, but whatever) and started the lobster pot.
Tossed in some quartered white potatoes, thyme and corn along with the doomed crustaceans (yes, I know I am a Julia-holic-but in this case, simpler is better) and started clarifying the butter and lemon.
Time's up... Grabbed the tongs and hefted the little buggers out of the water. Perfectly timed, but annoyingly, the last one slipped off the tongs and fell back in the pot, splashing boiling water all over me. My souvenir of Lobster Night--aside from a growing waistline, is sadly a series of blisters across my stomach, hand and face.
Probably some sort of Jack-Vegetarian Kharma.
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