Dozens of thin-shelled Maine shrimp bob crowded in the roiling pot, bodies scrunched into tight V jack knives. It's that time of the year. Six week abundance. A robust harvest this year. Our frigid Maine ocean spewing them forth captured in the wide nets cast from our trawlers by weathered men bundled thickly in quilted jackets, woolen caps and elbow length gloves. Hearty fisher-souls.
Boiling vapors steam from the stove top blanketing the kitchen windows in a misty fog like the February skies outdoors. A storm brewing. These tiny crustaceans tinge pink-red in a nano-second. Sweet. Succulent. Under a dollar a pound. An amuse-bouche from the sea. A winter teaser.
Heaped inches deep, they cover the large white Italian ceramic platter on my breakfast room table. In the candlelight, their beady black eyes peer through me. They see. They know. I merely walk the walk. Talk the talk. Needle-thin antennae pick up my unsettled vibes.
Boiling vapors steam from the stove top blanketing the kitchen windows in a misty fog like the February skies outdoors. A storm brewing. These tiny crustaceans tinge pink-red in a nano-second. Sweet. Succulent. Under a dollar a pound. An amuse-bouche from the sea. A winter teaser.
Heaped inches deep, they cover the large white Italian ceramic platter on my breakfast room table. In the candlelight, their beady black eyes peer through me. They see. They know. I merely walk the walk. Talk the talk. Needle-thin antennae pick up my unsettled vibes.
Cheers? Tomorrow's another day.
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