Voluntary mussel movement: Shampling the shellfish

When you're about to try something new, it helps to surround yourself with caring and supportive people.

If everyone you know who fits that description is working, out of the country or otherwise indisposed, you work with who you've got.

I was lucky. When I hovered apprehensively over a plate of mussels and kelp for the first time, I had compassionate colleagues at the ready. And I mean "compassionate" in a "heart-felt mockery" kind of way. Such coworkers play into my shellfish fears and then tell me to stop being so dramatic and just eat the damn things.

Gentle, cushiony support doesn't grow well in my office. Must be the lack of light down here in the basement.

At any rate, we headed to Brian Boru on Monday evening for "Meet your Maker - Your Beer Maker." The tasting was one of the final events in the 10-day RestaurantWeekME, which ended yesterday.

At Boru, the folks from Bangs Island Mussels were dishing out plates of mussels alongside Ocean Approved kelp noodles.

Shipyard's Brewmaster Alan Pugsley was pouring his personally crafted Imperial Porter as well as a couple of the more permanent Shipyard brews.

It was an evening of first-time tastings: me with the mussels and everyone else with the porter. Though I don't think any of them panicked with their first sip of beer.


I admittedly had a rough go with the first mussel. My mistake: looking at it. I mean really looking at it. I should have just eaten it, but I procrastinated by pulling it apart and analyzing the thing. "What is that in there? A kidney bean?" For all I knew it was an actual kidney. A once-functioning miniature shellfish organ. There might be a whole slew of parts in there, like a pea-sized pancreas or a rib cage.

The notion is absurd, of course, but you see how the thought train can veer dramatically off-rail.

But in a moment of strength I lifted the mussel from its shell cradle and ate it. Chewed it, even, which doesn't often happen with new food. And shock - it wasn't altogether frightening. It tasted to me like ravioli stuffed with beans - not at all like that saltwater jolt of an oyster. That's what we call "a learning."

I also learned that months with an "r" in their name (September to April) are considered the "in" season for mussels.

Monday marked one more small step toward seafood triumph. And I'd earned my Imperial Porter.


The porter is the creation of Shipyard's Alan Puglsey for the aptly named Pugsley's Signature Series. The Imperial Porter and a Barley Wine Style Ale have been available since November in 22-ounce bottles at liquor stores such as RSVP. Alan told me that the Barley Wine will be phased out to make room for a new introduction and eventually the porter will say adieu for yet another. Response from all ye beer drinkers will determine if any of the signature beers make a return.

The group at Brian Boru's on Monday seemed to approve of both the porter and the Bangs Island mussels (as evidence by the folks who returned for seconds and thirds and who also said, "I approve!").

I decided two mussels was my limit for now. One can't rush headlong into bivalve consumption.

They're fickle things, those victual aversions.

What, me? Afraid of Lobsters? Pshaw!

I've been afraid of lobster for a long time.

And by "afraid" I don't mean a mild aversion.

I mean an extreme and fundamental fright in which even the lobsters themselves (if I ever walked too closely to a tank or if a dinner cohort had one splayed lifelike on his/her plate) would talk to me.

They'd mutter things under their lobster breath, like tiny prisoners of fate whispering to me from the next cell over:

"You even think of taking a bite out of me, I'll haunt you every moment of every day until your last breath pushes life from your body."

It was serious.

Back in Illinois, the lobster fear was easily managed. It just didn't come up. But here in Maine, it's an obvious character flaw.

And I've carried the shame with me these last three years.

I did try a lobster roll two summers ago at Two Lights Lobster Shack. But what my accomplice didn't realize at the time was that I'd piece by piece replaced the chunks of lobster meat with french fries. So as I posed for pictures and bit down on my sandwich, I really wasn't eating anything more than bread, fries and a tremendous amount of mayonnaise.

Thus, when I was invited to a lobster feed this week, I hesitated a bit. I figured it could only culminate in one of two outcomes: A new-found lobster adoration or permanent metal scarring. Either way, it was time to find out.

Maybe it was a bad idea, but I had to have a look-see at the underwater creatures I intended to split open. It's a tricky thing, meeting your food. (So I discovered this summer when I met a pre-slaughter 4-H pig at the Cumberland County Fair.) But the lobsters just lie there, piled atop one another like a football team just after a tackle.

Harmless, right?

Of course, when someone pulled one from the bin and it began whipping its tail back and forth like a shellfish ninja, I started inventing reasons to leave.

Knowing that any excuse I might muster would be whole-heartedly rejected, I opted to calm my nerves with a drink or two instead.

A couple of good-looking fellas in the kitchen didn't hurt either.

I watched as the lobsters met their watery execution in the pots of boiling water. And for the record, I didn't hear any screaming - from the lobsters or the chefs.

My friend Jesse was kind enough to walk me through the lobster-cracking process. She's the proud daughter of a lobsterman - and is tragically/ironically allergic to the crustaceans. But I couldn't have had a better ally in the endeavor.

And there, amid the steaming plates, glasses of wine and warm conversation, I ate my first lobster. It was Maine utopia. It was the quintessential New England experience that even I didn't believe really existed.

And I'm proud to report that I didn't bow out at the last minute.

I didn't freak out or spit lobster meat into my napkin. I didn't spill butter in my lap, fling a claw across the table or commit any other lobster-eating sins.

It was an all-around lobster success. And now I happily check "eat a lobster" off my list of things to do.

Thanks to kind host Mason and everyone else at the table who were obliging enough to not point and laugh at my naiveté.

Now, have I ever told you how I'm afraid of shrimp?

Grand Tasting at the Office Gateway: The birth of a bread master

Yesterday's Grand Tasting at the Gateway (the first event of the three-day Harvest on the Harbor) was a wine/beer/food tasting frenzy. A wee gluttonous? Sure. But a little gluttony never hurt anyone.

Actually that's not true at all. Gluttony hurts lots of people. Gluttony is actually kind of a jerk, come to think of it. But I didn't intend on writing a PSA here guys, so let's put gluttony on the back burner for now..

My chum Avery wrote a nice round-up of the event so I'll keep redundancy to a minimum and simply say it was a sampler's feast.

Edible contrivances of all kinds (though most seemed to lean toward the seafood variety) and wine, wine, wine. Peak Organic and Shipyard brought the beer, along with Nappi Distributors.

Our stomachs so enjoyed the event that we decided to recreate it back at the office this morning. Our office chefs may be slightly less prestigious than those in charge last night, but I'd venture to sat that today's tortellini salad and apple cinnamon sausage rivaled the creations of Portland's culinary kings.

I made apple bread - the recipe courtesy of my colleague Karen who insisted the bread was easy to make (read: even a kitchen dolt like myself could figure this one out).

She was right. I made a loaf and ate it. I was so filled with pride that I made another loaf and brought it into work to share. But I ended up eating most of that one, too.

In just over two weeks I've made four loaves (because I still have a load of apples from apple picking). They've all been delicious. If this routine continues I'll need an apple-product intervention before the month is out.

But the success of the apple bread means I now have two (that's TWO) food items I'm able to prepare and bring to a potluck: Apple bread or a meatless taco dip I perfected in high school. I can also make mashed potatoes, but they're not as potluck friendly.

Thus I move forward into the land of grown-up people who can prepare foods for office parties instead of stopping off at the CVS on the way in for a box of Fiddle Faddle.

So yea, I'm kind of feeling on top of the world with my new baking skills. I'm sort of an apple bread master - and it just feels right.

Harvest on the Harbor continues through tomorrow. I had planned on taking part in the Wine Flight 5K tomorrow morning, but then realized that the Culinary Marketplace is essentially the same thing, only without all that pesky exercise.

I think I'll make some more apple bread and slyly slip it onto the Fore Street exhibitor's table tomorrow. See if anyone notices.

Photos from Grand Tasting at the Gateway (some even with a well-executed "overkill flash!")