I never met a clam I didn’t love.
Of course it’s not a matter of romance.
It’s not champagne and sex I’m dreaming of—
Although, come to think of it, champagne would be good for washing down a bucket of steamers.
You eat a clam, it’s like you kiss the ocean,
The pungent, salty sweetness of the deep,
A magical, intoxicating potion—
Although, come to think of it, they are sort of chewy, and some people are grossed out by them.
With clams, I don’t care how they are presented.
I’ll gladly eat them fried, or steamed, or raw.
As long as they’ve been killed, I’ll be contented—
Although, come to think of it, I wouldn’t have a problem with killing one myself, if that’s what it took; somebody’s got to do it.
Clams aren’t the only reason I live here,
But pretty close, to tell the whole darn truth.
There’s not much else I hold so near and dear—
Although, come to think of it, if it came down to clams or eternal life, it would be really close; what’s life without clams?
Amazing how so small a thing delights.
I want them by the pound, or by the bucket.
Clams take me to unreasonable heights—
Although, come to think of it, ten dollars a pound is a lot of money for steamers, and fried clams are even more, and I’m about out of money, thanks to these little devils.
Doug Brendel lives 9 minutes by car from the nearest clam shack, or 1 hour 22 minutes on foot, which is why he owns a car. Follow him here at Outsidah.com.