Our Most Memorable Oyster

It went against every instinct, my gut twisted as I built up the courage to eat that first oyster. There are few times that I have felt braver than the moment I reluctantly tipped the shell into my mouth, full body of an oyster moving across my tongue.

I remember the feeling of death in my mouth, chomping through soggy flesh, I hadn’t eaten a creature so alive in over six years.

I couldn’t decide if I should chew it quickly to get the full flavor or if I should swallow it and be done with it all. I almost spit it out; having been pulled out of the puget sound so recently then cuddled in piles of ice, the cold body of the oyster made me wince as I bit into it. It was too cold on my teeth,. The tough abductor muscle did not seem edible, let alone appetizing. Curiosity kept the oyster in my mouth long enough for me to decipher a few flavors; the milky taste of the oyster mixed with the salty brine made me feel sick. It tasted of watered down milk, or maybe soggy popcorn, but the texture was so revolting that I couldn’t bear to keep it in my mouth any longer.  Bits of shell found their way into my mouth and rested near my cheeks until I was able to fish them out. I chewed the oyster into small enough pieces to swallow it, and I did so as fast as quickly as possible. Relief and satisfaction followed,  the wind reminded me of my itchy cold hands that had been doused in salt water. 

Despite my experience of disgust with the oysters I tasted that day, I lay in the van feeling warmth wash over me from the inside out. I experienced a new place of contentment; I wasn’t too hungry, nor too full. I was not too hot or cold. I felt as though I was floating. I became that oyster for a little while, cozy and wrapped in a gnarled shell under the pressure of the ocean tides. Nothing could get to me in that moment; the oysters of my home were my medicine that day.

Written by Sophie Tuchel. Edited by Chloe Landrieu Murphy