Lobsters

Lately, there's been a lot of food talk about fat: using chicken fat to fry potatoes in, making duck confit, duck-fat fries, rendering your own lard, what oils have the healthy omega fatty acids and which have the bad kinds, etc. You know what, I am all for fat. In theory, anyway. It sounds like a great idea, all that deliciousness, the roundness it gives to foods, how satisfying it can be to eat, and all that...until your gall bladder decides to go out, for instance. I know first hand and I will not describe the scenarios that fat-laden repasts led me to during a certain period. Fortunately, I don't mind dining à la Jack Sprat (more or less).

Good thing, too, because I was recently prescribed Niaspan. Are you aware of this devilish formulation? In its less-concentrated form, you know it as good old niacin, essential B vitamin, friend to all who consume foodstuffs naturally-laden with it. My doctor told me that non-prescription formulations of high-dose niacin are either 1. ineffective or 2. dangerous, so steer clear of both of those. But, he said, Niaspan is properly prepared and, with caveats, encouraged me to give it a try. He said that I must be particular in how I take it. I must take it concurrent with one regular-strength aspirin or ibuprofen. I must eat a LOW-FAT, non-spicy snack with it, preferably plain applesauce. I must take it at bed time. And, he said, he will increase the dose after one month if all goes well in the meantime.

I did as he told, and all was well...until the night I did not get dinner until late. That night I had rich black bean soup with hot red pepper all over it. I had a salad with a hearty mustard dressing on it. I had ice cream. I had some crunchy, salty, snacky thing. I was hungry, so I ate. About an hour after that, I took an ibuprofen then I took my Niaspan. About a half hour after that, I felt like I was undergoing a super-acupuncture session. My skin started to feel tremendously hot. My breathing became quick and shallow. In an agony that only the Incredible Hulk and I have experienced, I looked at myself in the mirror and thought I might be seeing things but, no, I really looked quite a bit like a human-shaped, cooked lobster. I hopped in the shower and the flushing episode was over in about a half hour. Not pleasant. I vowed to not eat for three to four hours before I have my applesauce or plain rye cracker, and then take the Super Lobster pill. Another reason to eschew fashionable fat, I'm afraid.

Since the evening of the Hulk-worthy flushing, I have been thinking quite a bit about lobsters (my new alter ego. You understand.) I have since recalled our ten-day visit from our Parisian friend, Jean-Pierre, several years ago, during which we purchased four lobsters and had a feast. J-P snapped pictures of the live, wily beasts, and then we mercilessly killed the creatures, snapped more pictures, and then ate a really good meal.

John Thorne writes about lobsters in Pot on the Fire, explaining that Maine lobstermen do not eat their quarry. Too expensive, they say. Having grown up among those who practice it readily, I have always been uneasy with reverse elitism. So, let the lobstermen claim that they cannot afford the odd lobster once or twice a year. I can't, either, but I like lobster meat well enough that I will fork out the cash from time to time and have a great meal.

I have mentioned him before in an earlier post, but one chef who interests me is Charlie Trotter. I have a book of his, The Kitchen Sessions with Charlie Trotter, in which there is a chapter on lobsters. A whole chapter on lobster preparations! I like that; it is honest, and the recipes are so enticing, like Lobster Tabbouleh with Apricot Curry Sauce, and Lobster en Barigoule.

I will continue to take the Niaspan. I risk more flushing episodes but, as long as I remain cool-headed while I'm leaping around all hot and lobster-like, I think I will let the humor of it pull me through. And then, of course, for my diligence, I will treat myself to a certain special supper.