It's Raining, It's Pouring, The Old Woman Is Snoring. Literally.

Have I mentioned the snoring?

There are no words to properly describe the range of sounds that my Grandmother emits quickly after closing her eyes for the night. It starts innocent enough ... just a little rattle here and there. Then, it's a full onslaught -- a nasal orchestra of epic proportions. I believe she has sleep apnea. She'll suck in a huge gulp of air, then it looks like she's trying to take in air for about four breaths without actually accomplishing anything.

As if that wasn't scary enough, what follows is horrifying -- and unbelievably loud. When the breath finally comes in, it reaches a crescendo that would make Maria Callas envious. 

Sweet baby Jesus ... thank you for earplugs. 

It's the crack of noon before we leave the house. It's raining, which makes three days straight of full-on rain. I am starting to think about building an ark.

As soon as I close and lock the door, the phone starts ringing. It's probably our lobsterman, calling to arrange this evening's delivery. Yes, that's right -- we're having fresh Maine lobster delivered fresh from the boat, and right to our front door. The woman who cleans the place where we are staying is married to the man who will catch these beauties, so I call her back from the car and ask for three to ensure we have leftovers. I'm armed with a grocery list that includes ingredients for a jalapeno-cilantro cole slaw and fingerling potatoes to go along. 

 

We are headed to Bar Harbor, but spying a winery sign, I turn in the opposite direction. Suddenly, we're passing an interesting garden, then a few hundred feet down the road, nearly hit a flock of wild turkeys. Just after, there's a roadside attraction with a truck on the roof, as well as a baby's playpen, complete with creepy doll and a sign that reads, "Who's your daddy?"

Weird is an understatement.

It's absolutely pouring, coming down so hard that I can barely see once we turn back around after finding the winery closed. We stop at a little roadside store promising Maine themed gifts, but offering mostly junk, and ask for a recommendation for a lobster shack. Lunts is their answer, assuring us that it's been around forever. I get another lobster roll (about the same price as the last place) and Gram orders a bowl of clam chowder. I'm concerned when the calamari we order as an appetizer comes out a bit rubbery, but am enjoying my Sea Dog Wild Blueberry Ale so much that I am temporarily distracted. Grandma loves the basil in her soup, but says the chowder at Mystic Pizza was better. The lobster roll was good, but not like at Day's. The amiable owner makes the stop worthwhile, though, handing us a guidebook for the road ahead.

I'll wash down my sadness with blueberry pie once we get into town.

In an effort to make that happen, we follow my colleague Molly's advice and head toward Southwest Harbor and Quietside Cafe. The pie is huge, standing at least three inches tall. The blueberry flavor is strong, balanced well by a scoop of vanilla ice cream. We walk into a shop or two, then pile back in the car bound for the seawall and Bass Harbor's head light. 

It's so yucky that we don't stop to get out, opting instead to head back and do our grocery shopping. We've read that the best way to cook lobster is in the water it came from, so I'm fixing to dredge some Atlantic water into a lobster pot when we get home and don't want to do it after dark.

We head to the unholy: Walmart. Sadly, the IGA we stopped at hoping to avoid this couldn't spell jalepano ( not a typo ... that was meant to be funny.) The ironic thing is, the IGA had green cabbage and Walmart didn't, so I've decided to replace that element in the cole slaw with fennel. Could be brilliant ... or tragic. 

In a half hour, we are again scooting along toward Prospect Harbor. When we arrive, I hurry inside, drop the groceries off and grab the lobster pot and camera. But when Grandma and I get out to what was the water's edge this morning, we note that the tide is out, leaving the water a good city block out. Between me and my salty brine goal now lies a swath of treacherous, slimy, seaweed-covered rocks.

What am I going to do with Larry, Mo And Curly now? (Yes -- I named the lobster.)

Unwavering, I leave Gram hugging the flagpole while I set off toward the sea. I hear her pleading behind me, saying that if anything happens to me, she is doomed. I make it about five rocks into the slippery landmine of muck before deciding that the last thing she needs to see, looking all precarious there on that outcropping of rock with the camera, is me fall. For someone that doesn't get scared of anything, it's something for me to say that this was really effing treacherous. I dipped the pot into some standing water and prayed, as I crawled carefully back across the death trap of slick stones, that it wouldn't make us sick.
 
I'm preparing this feast as a post entry for We The Eaters. We are doing a series in October on making foods "Less Scary," and now that I have conquered my fear of liver, I can think of nothing scarier than cooking a live lobster. Thankfully, they all but volunteer for who gets to go first into the pot. 
    

 

I'm irritated by Mo's attempts to crawl off the counter, so feel no remorse at dropping him into the stainless steel tomb. Poor Larry and Curly are playing dead, hoping I won't notice them.  Or perhaps they are just resigned to their scalding fate. As I pile them in on top of their writhing ring leader, I feel a little bad watching them squirm in response to the heat. So I clamp the lid down and run away. It's seems the only sensible thing to do.
 
In ten minutes, their shells have turned bright red. I pull them out of the pot, snapping a few pictures for the blog. Grandma is waiting patiently nearby as I transfer the three stooges onto a plate, moving everything we need to the table.

She attacks this thing like she has some deep seeded vendetta against all lobster-kind. I'm not doing bad myself, as a mixture of guts, water and meat particles fly through the air. I am suddenly really happy that she tucked the kitchen towel into my shirt before we got started.

This is my second time eating a full lobster, and my first time cooking it. Not a bad job, if I do say so myself. And the way she raves about it makes me feel really good.

I like to make the Grammy happy.