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.