Lobsterfest

I've spent the last few days with the song Rock Lobster looping in my head, and not the regular Rock Lobster either, an obscure hybrid of the B52s and The Family Guy. It's been a unique form of torture. One that I suspect is not used on detainees in Guantanamo Bay.

Lobsterfest was an education. We had a couple of real live East Coasters presiding over the preparation, making sure that everything was done properly. From the selection at the wholesalers to explaining the intricacies of dismemberment, East Coast Blaine and his wife, East Coast Laura, guided us through the whole process.

Apparently, if you annoy your food before you cook it, it will taste better.


The lobsters went into a big turkey fryer full of boiling water and came out this pretty red colour.

It isn't everybody that has a kitchen sink full of lobsters. I wonder what the street value is on these bad boys. We got a deal. Mind you, the special price was on the mutant, zombie lobsters that nobody else wanted. They tasted the same as the sexy, symmetrical lobsters though.

There he is. You'd never know he was a bargain basement crustacean. East Coast Blaine did an excellent, if brutal, job of severing our dinner. There was lobster juice and flinging guts all over the place, but the end product was a pretty, heart-shaped delicacy. Dipped in copious amounts of butter, it was the end that every lobster dreams of.