Proustian Meroir by Caroline App
Oysters must be experienced with body and mind aside. I had never kept this in mind until suddenly I had picked one up, surrounded by my peers and smiling owners of Bodega Bay Co. I jumped down the rabbit hole, or so to speak walked the conveyor belt of people to the ice bed that held my pride in a little calcium carbonate shell– a strong one at that, and unyielding. I walked outside to see lush green fields, and while this comforted me I felt confused. Should my shaky fingers be tasting and slipping this oyster before I even look at it? I saw no crashing waves. No salty wind sticking to my hair and stinging my eyes. The ocean couldn’t be smelled, the sea untasted. The occasional car drive-by, surrounded by others tasting. The shell remained between the fingers of someone who couldn’t bear to look at it. No dirty work. Get it done. Standing, lips close to the shore, I tossed my head back and the oyster shed the shell and I immediately chewed. The taste was soft and a little sweet. Like a cucumber. This was the extent of it all, I told myself. I began apologizing to the oyster for chewing at all…my mind reeling,
I hope I don’t hurt you. I hope you don’t know I’m here. Did you see me? I don’t even remember what you look like so I hope you have the same recollection.
The oyster is gone, and I taste green fields. Another car drives by.
