I ate my first oyster in the Big Easy. I was thirteen. My family moved there from Texas -- where the most exotic slimy thing I’d ever swallowed was okra.
The waiter carried the tray of oysters as if they were valuable, easing it down onto our table. Things on ice appear more precious. I picked up an oyster. It smelled like the stinky parts of the Galveston beach. The shell was thick and jagged. Everything about it looked like something not to eat. I stared down at the gelatinous mass quivering in pearlescent liquid.
I thought, “New Orleans is home now; better get used to it.” With a toss I’d seen in movies, the cold lump slid down my throat. Once those flavors get in you, you’re addicted.