America Case

The food that comforts me most is lobster and linguini. It takes me to where the air is warm, the breeze is constant, and the waves crash with a continuous roar. It brings me to the strip of the beach that I call "The Point." I place my towel down, cast my line out to the middle of the inlet, and wait. Papa always told me that his best thinking either happened in the shower, or watching his line while fishing. He claimed, "The water washes away all of the distractions," and I say washing it down with a lobster dinner is a perfect way to cap off a day of fishing.

We set the lobster traps out way before the sun came up. The fishing stories start early, as my grandpa reminds us that the bounty is going to be big today. We put the bait in the proper compartment and shut it. We attach our license tags to the top of the cage, and my grandpa urges me to drop the cage. I throw it as far away from the dock as possible. Now we wait. Now we dream. Dream of the haul that would be ours. Dream of the feast Nana will be preparing. Dream of the laughs and lore shared at the table.

Living on the East Coast has allowed me the privilege to visit the sea whenever I see fit, or at least whenever my mom would take me. At the end of a long day on the beach, I often linger way after the lifeguards have left and the hot sun has cooled, to soak up the sounds and sights of the sea around me. Today, however, my senses search for traces of Nana's lobster sauce coming from the kitchen. We set out to the docks to retrieve our cages. I imagine there are sweeter sounds than my Papa laughing and howling at the bounty in front of him, but not for me. We walk back to the house a little taller than we left, eager to acknowledge the pride that Nana and the moms will wear. Papa's eyes seem a little moist as he boasts of his techniques and as I think of my favorite comfort food, I'm aware that the sweet taste of the lobster may be seasoned with a whole lot of love and memories to last a lifetime.