So full...

We have a yearly thing that we do, mum, me, T, and a dear friend we've known...well...a very long time. Our friend S is originally from New England, and we often reminisce about old times and places. We've all been in Georgia long enough to sound like we belong here, except for a throwback or two (T was born here, so he's not included in this bit) like saying tomahto instead of tomayto, and bahthroom instead of baaathroom. Our yearly thing is, we get together and have dinner and catch up with each other, maybe tell stories about our corner-working days at the track. If you don't' know what corner-working is, just nod your head and smile - I'll explain one day. Suffice it to say, at the moment, that it was a bonding experience.

We have seafood. Specifically, shellfish. Last year was steamers (Ipswitch clams) and lobsters flown in from Maine. No, we're not loaded - we save up all year for this one night. We had corn, chouricco (pronounced shehdeese), potatoes, and salad as well. I am sure there was a desert but that was a year ago and I can't remember what it was. We did our feast in January.

This year, we had to reschedule a couple of times, but finally found a date that would work for us all - tonight. The order was placed last month with The Fisherman's Catch Seafood Market in Damarascotta (type that in a hurry!) Maine. They ship the critters live in a big old box with ice packs to keep them comfy. Clams weren't available, so we just did lobsters. Oh, no, not just lobsters. Cancel the whole thing. Hah! Here's the box:
It's big, huh?

Here's what was inside:

Mmm, tastey, a styrofoam container!

Inside that? Let's have a look:

What? Newspaper?? We were robbed!! Wait...it was twitching. Hmm. Dig deeper. Why lookie here, it's burried treasure!
Arrrr, mateys, bonanza!

We had to make sure they all survived the trip - it's vital that you not cook a dead lobster. They must be live before steaming or you'll get sick. Montelobstahs revenge in the worst way. Truly. No, not kidding. Really. Ickiness will commence. We check vitality by placing them on the (clean for once, thank the gods) floor and letting them stretch out a bit. Hey, it was a long flight!

They were thoroughly inspected by myself and Mum:

Huckabee: I'll take you with my claws shut!!

And Maya, one of my cats:

Just after I snapped that picture, the rightmost lobstah flexed his tail, making a scraping/clicking noise, and Maya shot two feet into the air and headed for higher ground. The other two cats didn't even bother making an appearance, smart beasts.

The we let Bird have a look:
Boy meets dinner. Shake hands, dinner.

Bird told the lobsters he loved them. Yes, he did. He wasn't really thrilled to learn that having lobster for dinner meant cooking them, although I was clear about that from the start. He said he didn't want them for dinner, he wanted them to be his friends. At that point, T distracted him and they went off to play and leave us wimmin folk in the kitchen to do the dirty work. No problem. We like our lobsters a little less lively when we dunk them in butter.

Hillary to Ron Paul(yes, we name our lobsters - in an election year, they're named after the candidates running for office. Nice, huh?): Is it me, or is the sauna getting crowded?

The blue pot must be economy class...there's much more claw room in the silver one!

Isn't the corn lovely?

We covered them and let 'em get cozy - wouldn't want them catching a chill!

Don't look at the next picure if you're soft hearted.

Fair warning.

It's brutal.

But oh, my goodness, was it tasty!!

All that remained:

Bird ate his share without a qualm. Maybe it helped that I told him that what we eat becomes a part of us forever. More likely it was that lobstahs are tasty, and he's smart enough to know he didn't want to miss out on this.

We call the bowl the "boneyard", and it's nothing but empty shells, now. Replete with our lobstahs, corn, and cheddar-dill biscuits, we sat back and breather a happy sigh. And a few burps. Scuse us.

Then it was time to clear the table and do some damage to the ridiculous cake that Mum brought. It was nice of her to do, because I was going to make key lime pie and maybe buy a French silk pie, because I love me some French silk pie and I draw the line at baking my own dang birthday cake. I'll do without. But I didn't have to. Look at this insanely, ridiculously cute cake:

Kiki is my nickname. Shut up. I can't believe I had to cut this up. I managed. It was tasty, too.
You can always tell how good it is by how much gets on the kid's face. The more he wears, the better it is. Oh, yeah, I had strawberries, too - they were on sale and they were pretty and dang were they yummy with that cake.

The fact that our annual get together coincided with my birthday was just serendipity, but I'll take it. Wouldn't you?

We played a rousing round of our newest board game "You Might Be a Redneck If..." after. The cats tried to convince us they needed leftover lobstah, or at least lobstah buttah, to live. We weren't moved. They survived.

There you have it...our entire night of crazed birthday debauchery. If every birthday was this nice, I wouldn't mind them so much.

G'night, y'all - I need to go sleep it off, now.