A 13-Year-Old Sushi Lover Confronts Oysters

LILLYONNA STORIES

Teen Shushi Lover Confronts Oysters

“Please Uncle Hovey, don’t make me eat that,” the 13-year-old sobbed piteously as she separated the oysters in her stew into a pile on one side of her bowl and eyed the teaspoon-fill of milk broth with deep suspicion.

Things had gone reasonably well as Lillyonna had recently arrived from Florida and mentioned to me that she loved Shushi, but had never had oysters even though they lived in Daytona Beach where raw, stewed, roasted. and fried oysters were common in restaurants who often advertised the fact by paving their parking lots with oyster shells. She told me that she loved all seafood and even wanted to try sea urchin, which I had tried and did not like, but her mother and grandmother had never cooked oysters because they were “slimy” which with “moldy” described two classes of food she would not eat. Anything discolored or with a bit of foreign matter in it was “slimy” or “moldy” in her book and not fit for human consumption. The same applied to food products which were past their “best if used by dates,” which she considered unusable, if not deadly.

To her and her grandmother’s horror they found in their uncle’s cabinets food that was up to 20 years after its “best by” date including some cans in the back that had rusted to the point where the contents had drained away and an unidentifiable blob remained in the can. While I agreed that these were past use, I maintained that the products in cans that were intact and showed no signs of swelling were still eatable as I had commonly eaten canned C-Rations in the army in the 1970s that were put up in 1942. Storage conditions do make a difference as cold, dry conditions are preferred, and cans that are obviously beat up and badly rusted should be avoided.

As the only oysters conveniently available in Sandersville, some 120-miles from the Georgia coast, were canned; two pints were purchased to make small batch of stew along with Spanish onions, and a stalk of celery to this would be added a pint of half-and-half milk, crushed pepper, garlic powder, Himalayan Sea Salt, a half-stick of butter, and an apple to give a hint of sweetness to the stew. As I melted the butter in a deep-walled pot and started to sauté the onions, a cry erupted from the direction of the can opener as Lillyonna’s nostrils caught the first whiff of oyster essence emanating from the can.

With the lids on top of the two cans, she brought them to me and questioned, “Why do they smell like this?”

“They just do,” I replied. “That is the nature of oysters. Just like us and all animals, they have a different smell. Sniff, I requested. You need to know what good fresh oysters smell like. Bad oysters can be deadly. You don’t want to eat them or serve them to others.”

She did not find this statement reassuring, and was not comforted when I said “Everything in the can goes into the stew” as I waited for the pot to cool before adding the cream and milk. “These are mechanically processed, so there may be a few small shell fragments or grains of sand. This is normal. They settle to the bottom of the pot.”

“You’re not going to chop them up, or anything?” She inquired.

“No you eat them whole. I’ll add them when the milk starts to warm and then continuously stir the pot. You don’t want to cook them too long or they will get leathery on you,” I concluded.

“You are going to make me eat raw oysters?”

“When we go to the coast sometimes, I’ll take you to an oyster bar where you shuck them and eat them alive. These will be well cooked,” I assured my niece. Harmful germs in oysters may not change their smell, appearance or taste. Eating raw oysters carries infection risk; proper cooking kills harmful germs, but does not destroy marine shellfish toxins.”

In about five minutes the stew was ready, and we sat at the table where Lillyonna had forced down her spoonful of broth, removed an oyster, and was cutting it up with a knife.

“It’s full of poo. You’re going to make me eat poo,” She declared.

“That’s part of the oyster. Like a sardine, it has its guts in it too. I spent several hours making this for you, I insist that you try it. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to finish it.” I remarked as I finished my third.

“It’s slimy,” she rebutted.

“No it’s not slimy. We’ll have boiled okra sometimes. That’s slimy. This is not slimy. It is firm and chewy, but not slimy,” I affirmed.

With reluctance like taking medicine, she put it into her mouth and choked it down immediately followed by a gulp of Ginger Aid.

“You are welcomed to your opinion on oysters. I am not going to force you to eat them. If I serve them to others, as I will, keep your opinions to yourself. I don’t want to hear that they are nasty, full of poo, or anything like that,” I said as I finished my and her bowls of stew.