Food foraging is life endangering specifically when you’re twentysomething and believe the world is your oyster—or mussel. One summer day, I packed a group of friends into my car with some supplies including a raw chicken and wine to set off for Neah Bay. With our windows rolled down and Bronski Beat playing from my mixed tape, I drove until we spotted the perfect beach. A few hours before sunset, we reached a rocky shoreline, the furthest Northwestern tip of Washington. Scrambling down from the highway embankment, we eagerly inhaled the briny, mineral marine air. Wanderings led us to rock outcrops encrusted with glistening mussels. I badly wanted to pop open the inky black shells and eat one raw, but in the midst of a hot summer, news stories warned of red tide toxin–an illness that can cause respiratory paralysis. I’d have to cook them at a minimum, I mused. [150 words]
Somehow, I convinced my friends to take the risk, so we plucked the clinging Pacific Blues from the rocks and rinsed them in seawater. We then simmered the clams in wine over a smoky driftwood fire. The bright orange mussels full of phytoplankton converted to a tender, sweet first course. As we passed a bottle of wine around, looking out at the golden sunset, ocean spray misting our faces, listening to the seabirds evening call, we theorized this wouldn’t be a bad way to die. Then remembering the uncooked chicken, we found kelp to truss the bird and fashioned a roasting spit to cook the rest of dinner. As we drifted off to sleep, with the warm fire nearby and cool ocean fog rolling in, each of us silently prayed we’d see the sun rise. In retrospect, the true danger was the chicken—the familiar perceived safer than the wild possibilities. [300]
by Vuong Vu
Table Tales - 150 word stories 