Shellfish Decisions
Aging is hard enough. And now you're telling me I have to break up with brunch?
At some point this past year, shrimp turned on me.
I was heartbroken. I went into denial.
Maybe it wasn’t the shrimp.
Maybe it was too much shrimp.
Maybe it had been prepared wrong. (Several times. By different people. In different states.)
Was it a fluke? Wait. Isn’t fluke a fish?
Great. Now even the puns are taunting me.
The psychological processing of losing a favorite food is rough. (Roughy? Dammit.)
It can’t be shrimp. Who messed this up for me? I want names. Maybe I can still have shrimp… just, like, less shrimp. In moderation. A whisper of shrimp.
Buffets are ruined now. Shrimp cocktails used to bring me joy. So did tartar sauce. Does tartar sauce have a reason to exist without shrimp? Who limited such a delicious condiment to one type of seafood?
I hate everyone.
Fine. No shrimp. There are other options. These things happen as we age. We surrender pieces of ourselves. One crustacean at a time.
Aging & Other Casual Betrayals
Getting older comes with sacrifice. You don’t have to do anything to get injured when you reach a particular age, you just exist in the wrong position for too long.
How dare I sleep on my right side? Bold of me to try.
The heating pad has become my emotional support appliance. I take it everywhere. I’ve named her Myrtle.
Sigh. At least it’s not just me. Amy Poehler and Idris Elba recently discussed their collapsing knees on the Good Hang podcast, and I felt deeply seen. I think that makes us friends now. If they strolled through my neighborhood, I could just call out, “Hey! Same knees!” and they’d nod in solidarity.
Unless they were behind me. In which case, tough luck. Turning my head makes my neck sound like gravel in a blender.
Which, coincidentally, is also the exact noise my right knee makes when I walk down stairs. Maybe I’m slowly turning to stone. If that’s the case, shrimp would be a non-issue, because statues don’t have food sensitivities.
The Sassafras Betrayal
I went to Sassafras in Denver yesterday—one of my favorite brunch spots—and bravely skipped the shrimp and grits (which I loved with my whole heart). I opted instead for the crab cake benedict, naively thinking it wouldn’t betray me.
It betrayed me.
An hour later, curled into the fetal position on my couch like a Victorian child with consumption, I had to face the truth: it’s not just shrimp. It’s shellfish.
Why, Universe?
I just want to enjoy a brunch menu without being punished. Is that too much to ask?
The answer is yes. Yes it is.
A Seafood-Related Existential Crisis
Did this spiral into a seafood-related existential crisis?
Obviously.
Sure, I know I can still eat grilled salmon. Canned tuna has remained steadfast, like the pantry MVP it is.
But I can’t help wondering: what about the mollusks?
If scallops turn on me, I’m not sure I’ll recover. What then, of clam chowder? Of those fancy moments when I order mussels and feel like a person with disposable income?
If I can’t have shellfish, why would I even go to happy hour? I’m not ordering chicken strips and a sad pile of potato options. I have standards.