Tuesday, December 17, 2002

I am sure that the argument can be made that any meat-eating person ought to take the responsibility once in their life for slaughtering an animal for food.  That one ought to chop that animal up into small pieces while it’s still alive, I am less certain of. The last of the lobsters.  Homard a l’Americaine. I bought the little guy in Chinatown.  He was spryer, of course, than his predecessors, flailing around in his bag for the entire subway ride – only fair, since this recipe has been set out for me as a test of my moral fiber and sureness of purpose.  Knifing a dead lobster in the back was no challenge.  I put him in the freezer when I got home, while I prepared the other ingredients – a diced carrot, diced onion, minced shallots and garlic, tomatoes peeled, seeded and chopped.  When I took him out half an hour later, he was slower than he’d been, but far from dead.  I tried to make this go as easy as possible.  I knew that I had to be both careful and strong.  It’s like shooting an old, dying dog in the back of the skull – you gotta be strong, for the animal’s sake.  I took my biggest knife.  I positioned it carefully at the back of his (“its”, Julie, for chrissakes.  It’s an “it.”) back, at the juncture of chest and tail, and with a deep breath I did as Julia suggested and made a small puncture where the spinal cord was.  Supposedly. The creature did not particularly seem to think that was a good idea.  Its struggles increased.  So quickly I placed the tip of my knife between its eyes and, again following Julia’s suggestion for humane means of lobster murder, muttering “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” I plunged it all at once down. Oh god.  Oh god. The thing was leaking clear blood, continuing to flail, though its head was now chopped neatly in two.  The worst part – and I hesitate to mention this, but it is my duty to report truly and faithfully, oh my readers – was that the muscles or something inside squeezed at the knife, so I could feel it moving in my hand, like the blade was the center of all the lobster’s excruciating pain, and it was pulling desperately at it.  Or something. Once I’d slice it about halfway in half, lengthwise, I figure it must be feeling no pain, though it was still moving around a good little bit.  So it was safe for me to walk out of the room for a little bit to keep from throwing up.  When I came back it was to the sight of this enormous bug pinned to my cutting board with a huge knife, which was a sort ghastly but hilarious sight.  After that things, got a little easier.  In not too much time I had the thing cut into four pieces, plus detached claws.  I cleaned out the intestines and “green matter,” which looked more like an organ when it was unsteamed.  It wasn’t so bad, though some of the muscle was still twitching.  In fact, when I threw the pieces in hot oil, the claws were still opening and closing and wiggling around.  Urk. I’ll tell you the rest of the recipe, though it really doesn’t bear that much talking about.  I sautéed the pieces a few minutes in the oil until they’d turned red, then took them out, sautéed the carrot and onion, put the lobster back.  I added the shallots and garlic, then poured in some cognac and lit it.  Always a fun thing to do, that raised my spirits a bit.  When the flames had subsided I added the tomatoes, some tomato paste, parsley, tarragon, water and vermouth.  I’d forgotten clam juice.  Also I had no meat glaze on hand, couldn’t even really remember what meat glaze was.  That was optional, but it, and the clam juice, were like blows to the solar plexus.  I was letting the lobster down.  I brought the pot to a boil and put it in a 350-degree oven. While it was cooking, I mashed softened butter and the “green matter” through a sieve. I made rice. I washed my hands.  A lot. (“Who knew the old bug would have so much blood in him?” “Julie, that’s tomato paste.” “Oh.  Right.  Sorry.”) I tried not to remember. I took the pot out of the oven, removed the lobster again, boiled down the sauce.  Beat a cup of the sauce in with the “green matter”/butter.  Poured that back into the pot, and put the lobster back in.  Let it heat just a bit on the stove. I arranged the rice into a ring on a plate, as Julia says.  I’ve committed brutal murder for the woman, why not make a rice ring?  I arrange the lobster pieces in the middle, and ladled the sauce over. It was good; not great.  The meat was a little overdone, I think, and Eric liked the lobster in cream sauce better.  I cannot argue that killing the lobster was wrong on moral grounds.  Who can say that plunging a knife into a crustacean’s head is crueler than boiling it to death, or for that matter, electrocuting a chicken?  Have your read about what they do too chickens?  It’ll turn your stomach.  I eat slaughtered cows all the time.  And pig -- and I love pigs, pigs are way smart, more intelligent than dogs they say.  Though does the intelligence of the creature have any bearing on its right and desire to live?  George Bush, based on his record of executing the mentally disabled, would argue not.  My god.  I’m turning into George Bush?! Okay.  Enough.  It’s done.  I know something about myself now.  For one thing, I know I’ll get through this Julie/Julia thing.  After this, calves’ brains will be a snap. 7:32:00 AM    comment []