of blurred weekends and bi-valve bliss….

It was Friday or not (when in business for oneself, day designations can seem a little pointless) and then it bled over into a probable Saturday followed by being rolled out on a most likely Sunday, ending with a somewhat sad breakfast–a trickle off way to close the week–and yet no complaints except for the sausage… and maybe the coffee… and maybe the chemically induced maple syrup wannabe in a sealed plastic micro tub. Expectations were not that high anyway but a little fresh can go a long way. Trying very hard not to formulate a critique as such things are solely opinion biased with zero respect to the objective, a journal approach possibly better suited for approval, and without identifying the elevated or degraded establishments  for public applause or scrutiny and then most likely negative recoil against this author, the following basically occurred.

Friday evening and with a planted dare in the subconscious palate from a wine club member, a dare that there exists better pan fried oysters than previously thought existing elsewhere, a fact finder dining experiment was implemented and with willing friends in tow who are as equally curious if not more so about such things. Atmospheric conditions were a definitive factor as well as availability to well made gin martinis proved more than mood transforming. That in itself could change how the mollusks preformed after being under battered and heated stress. Another factor was the coating of corn meal. It added a delicate sense of attentiveness to the plate. A nutty one at that and I don’t know why. The place of previous best pan fried oyster dominance has its own appeal of loud music, loud patrons charged with beer and the residual smells of ancient imbibments of the tobacco kind and grease all in a not so delicate way. But unless the oysters would be placed side by side in a neutral arena, which I will never attempt to do–not needing to know, it would be very unfair to identify which is best… because place and mood is relevant. And for that reason, I like both places’ oysters… depending.

Next was a venture out to Camano Island for one of our usual 4 times a year reunions with friends from parts far eastern and equally coastal. And as usual there was ample food and again of the mollusk variety, this time barbecued, and brats and burgers and wine across the spectrum from Rhone to Australia and back, and even some up river homemade hooch glowing of amber hues and potent tones. Of course the best food is that prepared by the hands of hosts and guests alike. The best atmosphere, one that had nothing to do with street appeal, and the best intoxicant, the one that allowed all the aforementioned to coagulate, if nothing else, into far too many top heavy teeters and sways with slurs and boisterous inflammations if not a few too many crass and base attempts at humor–which under the circumstance, more than hit the spot. These times are always too short.

R