BIVALVULAR MOLLUSCS ARE FROM MARS, NEPHROPIDS ARE FROM VENUS

Somebody sent me a lobster video. No, not one of my Jewish correspondents who wished me to avoid shellfish -- most of them don't really care what I eat, and happily assume that anything I cooked is ab initio nisht kashrusdik -- nor one of my Vegan friends, because they (should) know better now than to rile up the savage carnivore. It was someone who knows A) that in eight weeks there will be lobster, and B) my shellfish allergy makes life surreal.

In exactly eight weeks it will be my apartment mate's birthday.
As per tradition, there will be a lobster.
Alive.


Also, as per tradition, it will be given a name reflecting its charming and effervescent personality while it scuttles around the sink, before it is plunged headfirst into boiling water, the trauma of which causes coma and death before the nerves can register heat. It will black out before it turns red.

Phil. Bertie. Sean. Jennifer. Marsha. Eileen.

Bubbles.



Unfortunately for my friend who wishes to either warn or torment me, (and it is probably the latter), he should know that I myself will probably have little or none of the lobster, and it will be so fresh that it cannot possibly trigger my allergy in any case.

Women are lobster fiends. I know that.

Men like sausages and barbecue.

Here is a video for him.


LOBSTER!

[SOURCE: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofkzvM7Skxg.]


Silly man. Your cautionary video will not dissuade either my roommate or myself. Because I am made of stern stuff, and she won't ever see it.


Even if she did, she'd 'feh' in your direction.

Freshly melted butter.

French bread.

Mayo.





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