My father was a dyed-in-the-shorts Bermudian who loved to feast on all
things from under the sea. Shrimp, crab, oysters, mussels, fish of all
kinds, and lobsters. Five years of serving in the Canadian Army
overseas in Holland and France during World War ll chewing on K rations
in a trench didn’t diminish his early island jones for a crustacean or
almost anything seaworthy and edible.
Relocating to the Toronto suburbs in Canada in the late Forties where seafood restaurants were almost as scarce as mermaid sightings still didn’t discourage his quest for a taste of the ocean. He did his best to pass his glorious seafood cravings on to his children, but as a toddler, I balked at the thought of sliding one of those grey slimy, pulsating mollusks down my tender young throat no matter how much tangy cocktail sauce was dumped on it. I cringed at the thought of cracking open a giant scarlet claw to scoop the steaming white meat dripping with warm clarified butter and lemon.