Stuck in a lobster pot
Last week I visited my family in New Hampshire, and one night we decided to have lobster dinner. Lobster is expensive and I don’t really like it. This apparently makes me weird and un-New England and somehow less than. My family’s strong disdain for my dislike of lobster always seems…well, stupid. As I said, lobster is expensive and I don’t like it. My not eating it means either money saved for the family or more lobster for the other proper New Englanders at the table who love it. Everybody wins, I suppose, but that appears to depend on how you define winning.
In fairness, lobster is a particular dining experience so opting out could represent something more than just a taste preference. On the other hand, enduring an expensive ritual just to prove your New England bone fides is pretty silly. Who cares? It’s food and we all have different preferences. These preferences say nothing about our character (well…not exactly). Yet no one is ever curious about why I don’t like lobster…they’re more interested in what they think my dislike of lobster says about me. That’s their brand of winning.
Why do we, and families in particular, care so much about this sort of stuff?
An adjacent bit of weirdness is that my dad doesn’t actually like lobster either, though he won’t admit it. What he LOVES are the steamers (steamed clams) we always have to accompany lobster. This is sort of like enduring an entree just to get the side dish. In the nearly 52 years with this odd crew, we’ve never figured out how to manage just cooking steamers.
And don’t get me started on cheese with pie…
Bon weekend!