Memorial Day and Clams

Memorable Clams

Most Islanders had a nice Memorial Day, a fun day. I had a terrible day. I was alone and clamless. Usually on Memorial Day, I have the first two pecks of clams (4 pecks in a bushel) in the refrigerator waiting for consumption. But not this day. My brother, whose indian name is Mollusko, failed to wade waist deep in the cold water and bring forth clams. He was full of excuses; the water was too cold, he was tired from a long work week, it wasn’t like I was paying him, why don’t I get my own damn clams, and on and on with lame excuses.

Nothing changed the fact that the house didn’t reek of steamed clams like it should have on Memorial Day. No steamers waiting for their little butter baths, no clam dishes, no new clam shells in the driveway attracting the first shiny green horse flies of the season. Actually, I’m just disappointed, not mad. I can’t be angry with Mollusko the Clam Hunter. I know that soon, clams will appear.

There’s so much more to catching clams than people know. It’s not like you stand in the water with a clam rake and they jump into the basket. It takes planning, strategy, patience. One must wade softly and carry a big rake.

We know that clams herd together for protection. Seldom do you find a single, lonesome clam, a rogue. It’s just too hard to live alone as a clam, to find food, to watch for predators swimming overhead (since they have no eyes), to avoid starfish who pry you open and eat you, no, it’s just too dangerous for a rogue clam.

Mollusko finds them in beds, hiding just under the silt trying to avoid detection by his big experienced feet with genetic clam detecting devices in every toe. Once he finds the edge of a clambed, he triangulates it’s location from above the water so he can find it over and over, until the clams become aware of him and start to migrate. Mollusko slowly rakes off the clams at the back of the pack first. Like a herd of running gazelle, it’s the old and sick animals that lag behind. The same is true of clams, it’s the old and lame that live on the edge of the bed. Mollusko is helping the natural selection process when he scoops them up in the rake basket. By eating the old and lame first, we allow the younger, healthier clams to mate and reproduce through the summer before we go after them in September.

I steam the first load of clams first, strain and save the clam broth to cook pasta in later. You can dip the clams in melted butter, or cocktail sauce and eat them with any side dish at all. My Aunt Olive once ate so many steamers, she had to lay on the couch for two days until her stomach ceased rising and falling with the tide.

The second meal we usually make is a clam fetticini. I cook the pasta in the saved clam broth for flavor and add chopped clams bits to a white sauce. Add any green side dish and the meal is complete.

The third meal I make, which is very rare because there’s usually no clams left at this point, is clam fritters. Using a standard pancake batter, I add clambits and deep fry the clam pancake in bacon grease. Only bacon grease will do, it has that smokey flavor and tiny bits of bacon for added texture. This is how my grandmother made them and this is the only way I make them. It should be noted that my grandmother’s clam fritter recipe has been officially condemned by the American Heart Society since 1970. My Aunt Ruth Krsnak of Sayville eats the fritters with maple syrup on them. She’s the only person we know who eat fritters with syrup. We don’t know why she eats them with syrup, it’s just something the family accepts, like the fact that my mother thinks garlic is not necessary for cooking italian dishes. Personally, when I cook italian, I start with garlic and build from there. My mother has had the same clove of garlic in her cabinet since I was in high school. I think she thinks when she opens that particular kitchen cabinet when she’s cooking spaghetti, fumes from that old dried up garlic clove waft out of the cabinet and into the sauce, anything more than garlic fumes will be too much and overwhelm the sauce. Well, that’s what happens I guess when irish people try to cook italian.

The weather is warming now. Soon, Mollusko will wade and invade the local clambeds like Godzilla through Tokyo. I have cocktail sauce and tiny fondue forks ready for battle.

How to Get Your Man to LISTEN!

Wait honey, let me ax you something...

Driving to work this morning, I heard some morning show host giving advice on how women can really get men to listen to them. They advocated three rules: 1. Sit beside the man, not in front of him. Eye contact can be intimidating for men. They are more likely to open up if they are sitting beside you. 2. No distractions. Try to talk to him without any radio, TV, or any other distractions. The reason is that men can’t multitask well. 3. Get to the point. When women build up to something, his mind wanders until he thinks you’re getting to the point.

I think all three of these suggestions are excellent. Especially the third one about getting to the point. I find that more women over explain things to men. They don’t care. They just want to know what you want and when you want it. I recall wanting my ex to paint a room for me. I tacked the color I selected to the wall with a note giving the deadline. I also made a note of the consequences; first no cooking, then no marital privileges, then I would take his fly fishing equipment hostage. The room was painted the color I wanted and on time, without any nagging. I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t nag, they don’t hear it, threaten their toys instead.

There are some other suggestions I have for communicating with men.

Lasagna; learn to make an excellent lasagna. Feed him a big garlicky piece and he will listen to anything you say. Remember that the second piece usually puts them to sleep, so if you need to ask for money or for a relative to visit, wait until you’ve got him in that pasta stupor, you know, when he’s pasta all caring....

Gift Certificate to Lowe's or Home Depot: If you need him to take you somewhere and he doesn’t want to go, get a Lowe’s or Home Depot gift certificate and a sale catalog. Explain to him, that after he takes you to your appointment or event, you and he can go to Home Depot on the way home and he can stay as long as he likes looking at all the lawn tractors, and Barbecue equipment and new tools. I have never met a heterosexual man who can resist this. Tool shopping for them is like shoe shopping for us. There’s always room for a new tool.

Sleep deprivation: I have friend who liked to wait until she had her hubby alone on their boat to let him have it about some issue she had. She was getting nowhere, and he was putting in early rather than listen to her. I suggested she reverse course. Make those day cruises a love-fest and not mention anything unpleasant. Just sail away on a sparkling sea. After you get home, I told her, let him catch you crying softly on the edge of the bed. He’s had a great day and he’s tired from the salt air. He’ll agree to anything to stop the crying so he can get some sleep. And he did.... she said it worked like a charm every time. Find a way to have a great day and then slip in a crying jag at the end. He has to “fix” the problem so he can get to sleep. I love it when a plan comes together.....

My mother has been known to remove men’s car batteries and hide them in the kitchen when she absolutely had to talk to one of my brothers. Very effective, it worked every time. My grandmother wanted a refrigerator. She still had a ice box when I was in grade school. One day, she took an ax to the ice box, threw the ax in the middle of the living room floor where my grandfather was watching TV and announced “Ervin, NOW I need a refrigerator.” I recall we all held out breath, certain he was going to kill her. But there must be something about a woman wielding an ax that melts a man’s heart. He quietly, meekly rose from his lazyboy and got in the car. The next day, Gram had her first refrigerator, it was 1965.

So remember, when you want your fella to listen to you, reduce his distractions, use lasagna if needed, and if all else fails, use an ax.

Beer Can Coffin - PUHLEEZ!!!

Illinois man orders custom beer-can coffin
Sun May 4, 11:13 PM ET

Bill Bramanti will love Pabst Blue Ribbon eternally, and he's got the custom-made beer-can casket to prove it.
"I actually fit, because I got in here," said Bramanti of South Chicago Heights. The 67-year-old Glenwood village administrator doesn't plan on needing it anytime soon, though. He threw a party Saturday for friends and filled his silver coffin — designed in Pabst's colors of red, white and blue — with ice and his favorite brew.
"Why put such a great novelty piece up on a shelf in storage when you could use it only the way Bill Bramanti would use it?" said Bramanti's daughter, Cathy Bramanti, 42.


At the gates of Heaven:
“Louie, just go get St. Peter.”
“But he’s in a meeting with, you know, Mr. Big.”
“Louie, go to the door and tell him we just got a guy delivered in a beer can.”
“Geez, how short is he, Gabe?”
“The can is big, never mind, just go tell St. Peter.”

An hour later:
“Gabe, St. Peter said just use your best judgment and handle it. He’s trying to influence Pres. Bush to take the billions he wants to use to build missile sites in Europe with and use the money instead to rebuild New Orleans. He said he’ll back your decision.”
“He can’t get Bush to do anything right, you’d think he’d stop trying by now.”
“Yea, that’s true. You think Bush knows he’s got the Number One seat in Hell waiting for him?”
“Nah Louie, the guy’s a moron. A Yale frat boy. There’s a whole contingent of his Skull and Bones Society buddies there. He’ll be right at home.”
“So what are we gonna do about this guy in the can, Gabe?”
“Well, first, ah, we gotta get him out! He’s in a big can Louie, walk around it and see if it’s a pop top or if we need a can opener.”

Five minutes later.
“Okay, Gabe, I walked around the whole thing. Who knew they now sell beer in giant cans? When I was there, the biggest thing we could get was a keg.”
“A keg is still the biggest container, Louie. I just got word that this guy had this beer can coffin custom made.”
“Cool. Can we put it in our Coffin Hall of Fame?”
“Definitely. Go find Mario. Tell him bring a propane torch. We gotta cut this guy out.”

Two hours later:
“It’s okay Mr. Bramanti, come out. I’m Gabriel, this is Louis. We’re covering the front gate for St. Peter.”
“Wow! I wasn’t sure where I’d end up really.”
“Well, it wasn’t the best idea to be buried in a giant beer can. The guys in Hell would kill for a cold beer, you almost got kidnapped on the way and if they had opened this can and found you instead of beer, oh man, I don’t even want to think about it.”
“Well, I’m glad you guys got me. Listen, is there beer here in Heaven?”
“Yes, but you can’t get drunk. All the beer tastes like earth’s but there’s no alcohol content.”
“How come?”
“Because alcohol does strange things to people minds, like giving them the idea to be buried in giant beer cans. Any more questions, Bramanti?”
“Nope, I’m good.”

Farewell My Kitty....

Last week we lost a dear, most precious friend, Murray, our fifteen year old, seventeen pound tuxedo cat. He was a beautifully marked black and white tuxedo cat with a white mask and green eyes outlined in what looked like black eyeliner. At a visit last year, the vet proclaimed him, “officially the nicest cat on Shelter Island.” That’s because Murray, ever the cool cat, laid there like a lump while he was poked and prodded. He never protested. He was always too cool.

They say that losing a pet is like losing a child. I hesitate to make that analogy because nothing compares to losing a child, and yet, the elements of loss and pain are all there, just in a weaker concentration.

Murray and his sister Missy, were rescued from a woman who was going to have them put to sleep at age six because her new baby was allergic to cats. My brother took them. They had never been outside. For some reason, the previous owner had them declawed front AND back! Why the back claws? They couldn’t even scratch their ears!

With us, clawless though they were, they ran free. They caught, but couldn’t even hold butterflies. And they spent hours sharpening their toes on the corners of the couch. I tried many times to tell Murray, this was a pointless activity, but he never listened and stubbornly tried to sharpen those phantom claws. Murray took up permanent residence on my son’s bed. I know the electric blanket had nothing to do with it. Murray spent hours with his big head in my son’s lap, being petted and loved. They were best friends.

We will miss the way he sat on catnip. We never quite understood this particular method of absorption. He’d eat some, then sit on the pile. Maybe it’s a cat thing, maybe he was guarding his kill? He was always slow moving, but on catnip, he ran like a gazelle. Crashed into furniture, but still, like a gazelle would crash into furniture.

A few years ago, a gray kitten was added to the group. She attacked Murray, all 8 ounces of her, and she’d dig her claws into his fur and hang on like a lion cub trying to bring down an adult water buffalo. Murray would walk all over the house wearing this kitten, it was hysterical! He’d lay down and she’s attack from all angles. He never lost his temper. And up to the end, “Two Socks” as she came to be known, could still attack him and sit on his head without any protest. I think it was a May-December thing they had going on, there’s no other reason for a mature cat to share his catnip.

He was playful up to the the last few days. Then, his great little cat heart, just gave out. The vet gave us a very nice coffin shaped strong cardboard box for him. We wrapped him in a towel and had a proper Irish wake. The body was displayed in the box on the dresser. My son put in Murray’s favorite toy, a penlight. Murray loved to chase the little spotlight on the floor. My brother put in one of his deerskin slide on slippers. Murray loved to put his front paws inside the slippers and sleep. He looked like he was sledding. I’m not sure why my brother only put in the one slipper - what can he do with the other one? I found a rosary with a St. Francis medal (patron saint of animals) and we looped it around him. We wept, we laughed, we toasted him with Ovaltine. We inscribed his name and a celtic cross on the top of the box with a personal note from all of us.

He was a good cat all in all. Never drank or smoked. Never killed a mouse. Was good to his sister, unless Pounce treats were involved. He never threw up in the house. Could have done a little better covering things with litter, but let’s not speak ill of the dead.

Farewell my dearest pretty boy, Murray.