louis the lobster

Today's soundtrack:
"Forest, oh Forest, Protect Me" by Banded Stilts
"Supervillian Music" by Chilly Gonzales
"Barnes' Yard" by The Rural Alberta Advantage
"Pale Horse" by The Warped 45s

Once our stuff arrived from Canada, we knew a trip to Ikea wouldn't be far off. 40 bankers' boxes of books and no where to put them. Luckily, our knitterly friends Kristin and Peter needed bookcases as well, so the other week Peter and I rented a van and drove down to Edinburgh. What followed can only be described as the Great Ikea Disaster of 2011. Nothing we needed was in stock. White Billy bookcases? Nada. Bread bin? Zilch. Basic mirror? Not in the colour or size you need. Our great Ikea adventure, which was only supposed to take an hour or so, quickly rounded the corner on four. I could almost hear the evil cackle of some demented warehouse worker who has been secreting everything we'd need away for months, just like those postal workers who, after they die, are discovered to have hidden decades worth of mail in their basements.

After we got home and delivered a bookcase to our neighbours/landlords, I was about ready to collapse on the sofa for the night. Predictably, there was a knock at the door. Norman, our neighbour/landlord, holding a plastic grocery bag. He passes it to me, I look in, and there's a lobster. Moving. Fresh out of his lobster trap.

I guess the look on my face was one of shock and horror because Norman said, reassuringly, "Miguel's Spanish. He'll know what to do with it."

He didn't. Miguel took one look at the lobster and announced that he didn't want to kill it. Eat it, sure. No problem. But under no circumstances was he going to cook it. I threatened to inform the Spanish embassy of his lack of Spanishness regarding seafood, but to no avail. The only way the lobster was going to be dinner was if I cooked it.

Oh, fantastic.

So the lobster spent the night in our fridge and I spent the next afternoon figuring out how to cook this beastie. Norman claimed that if I held the lobster, who I'd named Louis at this point (probably where things began to go wrong), upside down, he'd go to sleep and he'd be easy to pop into the pot.

Alright. Loins girded, I put a pot of salted water to boil; however, after a look at Louis and the size of our Dutch oven, I began to seriously doubt that Louis was going to fit. I'd have to wait for the water to be a full boil, put Louis to sleep, and get him in to the smallish pot as quick as possible.

There was a resounding chorus of "oh God, oh God, this is so gross!" as I reached into the bag and carefully brought Louis out. No binding on Louis' pincers, so I very carefully held him upside down and counted to ten, which was how long Norman said it would take for Louis to conk out. Ten seconds later, he's still squirming about. Maybe he could see the pot of boiling water? The poor thing was moving more now than he did in the fridge, twisting about. Twenty seconds and Louis is not falling asleep. Not even drowsy.

Adrenaline going and my stomach in knots, all I want is for Louis to go to sleep so I can dump him in the pot, but he just won't stop moving. He's got to get into the pot. At a good boil, death would be pretty instant, I think. So I grabbed a wooden spoon (I wasn't sure he'd fit in the pot without encouragement) and moved Louis over the pot.

Not being the least bit sleepy, Louis had stretched himself to his full length, his pincers moving wildly. Oh my giddy aunt, there is just no way I was going to get this thing into the pot without a fight. At this point, I just want the whole thing over. I attempted to put him in headfirst (as per the instructions), but with pincers and tail thrashing about, this is not easy. I wrestle him into the pot, slam on the lid, and breathe.

Silence but for the boiling water, and then..

scratch, scratch, scratch as Louis' pincers and wee legs tap and scrape the inside of the pot.

This goes on for a minute. I'm ready to go headfirst into the toilet. Am now convinced Louis is never going to die but will instead return to the sea and recruit fellow lobster to come and attack the house. I have visions of being slowly boiled to death in a giant caldron.

And then it all stops. Miguel lifts the lid and notes with surprise that Louis' black shell has turned red (what kind of Spaniard is he, I ask you). Ten minutes later, we lift Louis out of the pot and Miguel begins tearing him apart. Claws first, then tail.

I tried a bit, but as I've never really been a big fan of seafood (aside from fish. It's a texture thing) I left the majority of Louis for Miguel, who'd gleefully announced that he'd never eaten anything so fresh. "Thirty minutes ago," he said, "and he was moving around our fridge."

And that's when I lost my appetite completely.

Conclusion: I apparently make a fantastic lobster. You'll never be able to try my lobster yourself, however, because there's no chance I'm ever doing that again.