Friday, July 18, 2014


I am woman hear me roar. Two more clamming episodes. In June we did a one-day set, then last weekend, mid-July, three days of pain and clam guts. Now, I ask myselves, what exactly is it that I like about this sport? I do love the hunt, ankle deep in seawater, waves hitting me at the knee and nearly ass over teakettle, as my sainted mother would say. I keep thinking that clamming would be so much more fun if I could just get the water to hold still. But, christlike as I hope to be, I cannot yet calm the seas. My husband invited a co-worker out to learn how to clam and she was nice but her husband was reluctant to take advice in how to clean the clams. He said, "We've eaten clams before." Steamers? Not exactly the same. Razor clams are a special hell. So many moving parts. And the fukishima parasites were back. But, the take was good, the clams huge. I fried clams the last night and a nurse from the trailer next door rescued me with a set of tongs which I had forgotten. We have many many more to make chowder for a year.


JoAnne Garwood said...

How you manage to get those suckers from sand to pot is invigorating...from a vicarious point of view. I love chowder but cannot imagine doing what it takes to harvest that particular protein. Good on ya! Annie

Roy said...

You made me think of Stagnaro's, the little restaurant on the municipal wharf in Santa Cruz, and a bowl of clam chowder with a hunk of sour dough from the grocery store (I asked them) but I never think about exactly how the clam got there.