For most of my life, my father has lived two blocks from Lake Erie, and like any Great Lakes raised rust-belter, I was raised with a healthy fear of large bodies of water (and the alien lifeforms beneath the surface). This fear was only exacerbated when at the age of 3 or 4 my mother and stepfather thought it would be funny to have me bathe with the lobster we would cook for dinner that night. To this day, I still have a very difficult time entering a lake or river. Then in 2006, while living between New Orleans and Houma Lousiana, my feeling began to change. In the week leading up to Mardi Gras, small barrooms offer pots of gumbo and jambalaya, and eventually, Louisiana cooking swayed my palette (and psyche) to the fish-side. Shortly after, I found myself hitchhiking and camping around the country with the money I had saved from a medical secretary job a year before. At a 7-11 outside of Steamboat Springs, I flagged a ride that landed me in Portland Oregon, where I immediately found work dishwashing at a Sushi restaurant on Gladstone. With a bottomless miso bowl full of hot sake above the dish pit, I developed a taste for sushi by grifting the remains left by wealthy Portland patrons. While sushi isn't my favorite food, I can appreciate it. Surprisingly, over the last few days, I have had an overwhelming hankering for lobster.
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