The Slaughter of the Clams

First off, please be aware of the difference between mussels:

and muscles:

Otherwise, you will be very confused by this post.

Since moving out, I have taken advantage of my status as a single working person with exclusive rights to one-third of a kitchen to learn to cook all the things I've always wanted to cook, but never had the time or money to do so. I've tried my hand at various kinds of meat, fish, appetizers, pasta, rice, and soups. So far, it's been a successful experience. (The more notable exception was a casserole I made using a cookbook written the year my parents married. My parents married in the eighties. The casserole tasted exactly like I imagine the eighties would taste, except I couldn't taste the Fraggle Rock. In any case, I should have known better than to use a cookbook in which MSG was a prescribed ingredient.)

My local grocery store often stocks fresh mussels, so last week, I decided to try my hand at cooking mussels.

Again, mussels:

I looked up a recipe that looked simple, yet delicious, and set off for the grocery store.

At the grocery store, I picked up white grape juice and shallots in which to cook the mussels. Then I went to the seafood counter to purchase my seafood.

Plot twist! For the first time in several weeks, the grocery store was not selling mussels. They were, however, selling clams.

Since I already had all the ingredients for mussels in my cart, and since mussels and clams are not dissimilar, I decided to purchase some clams and cook them as if they were mussels.

Just to make sure that this plan was a reasonable one, I began to peruse the facts of cooking clams versus cooking mussels. As I did, I noticed one thing: the recipes all said that the shellfish are cooked when they're dead.

And I was all, "Excuse me?"

I have eaten many clams and a fair amount of mussels in my time, but I have never thought about how the whole process works. As it turns out, fresh shellfish of this sort has a muscle:

that keeps its shell tightly closed. To access the actual meat, one would have to wrench open the shell with something pointy and unpleasant. So instead, what one does is one cooks the shellfish alive. Once the shellfish passes, the muscle automatically releases in death and the shell will open up. Which seems rather unfair. How would you like it if your last act before death was to yield up your body to be devoured by your murderer?

Armed with this knowledge of the shellfish life cycle, I chopped the shallots and then took the bag of clams out of the fridge.

As I removed the clams from the bag, it became clear to me that had I touched them before, I would have known they were alive. They bore the curious weight of a living thing. It was like I could feel their little clam souls pulsing inside the shells.

I gently scrubbed the clams' shells with soap and water, talking to them all the while. "Time for a little bath," I said. "Time for one last-"

Suddenly, I felt like a jerk.

One of the clams was already slightly open, which meant it was dead.

"Sorry," I said as I threw it in the garbage can, "but you aren't fit to eat." Then I wondered why I was apologizing for that.

I cooked the shallots in butter, then added the white grape juice and some parsley. Then I placed the clams in the saucepan and put on a lid to let them steam.

The lid was see-through, and so I watched as, one by one, each clam opened wide in a silent death scream. All except for one stoic clam, who opened only wide enough to have a casual conversation.

When the clams were done, I placed them in a bowl and gazed at them. I thought about explaining the circle of life and/or the food chain to them before I ate them, but they were dead, so what did they care?

I ate my violently-gained dinner, then went to the laundry room for what can best be termed the Battle of the Washing Machine. But that's a story for another day.

In the meantime, I recommend this poem by Shel Silverstein.