Perusing grocery aisles recently I came upon a sale on lobster tails for $8.99 each. As I pondered, my thoughts returned to our Air Force years stationed on Cape Cod. We used to buy whole lobsters about once a week for just over a dollar each.
Our two oldest children, then pre-schoolers, loved that crustacean too. We can all still totally demolish the innards of full lobster bodies, with not a single nibble of the good stuff left. I bought those lobster tails, of course, and Jim and I enjoyed the meal and the memories. I didn’t realize how many recollections that purchase was going to stir up.
That same week our once pre-schooler daughter and her husband called from a Nantucket Island vacation to say they’d just had lobster for lunch and were considering it for dinner as well. Sunday morning we had after-church breakfast with some fellow parishioners, two of whom were from Connecticut. The subject of lobsters came up again and we sighed in remembrance once more. All this inspired my husband to relate a lobster tale I’d rather he’d forgotten. (But you know husbands!)
We were fighter squadron newcomers and were giving an important dinner party with the Air Force base commander and his wife among the guests. I so wanted it to be something special. It was. But not in the way I envisioned.
I made two gallons of sinfully rich, creamy and delicious lobster Newburg, had it warming on top of the stove and went to take a shower. While there I heard what sounded like a much too close sonic boom. I jumped into a robe and ran into the kitchen where I was stunned to see a culinary version of the Carlsbad Caverns. There were Newburg stalactites dripping from the ceiling. Rivulets of the stuff oozed through the coils of the electric grids on the stove top, and circles of thick creamy puddles covered the floor. Boiling water had sealed the uneven pans I had used to form a makeshift double boiler and the pressure built until only one thing was going to happen.
The Keystone Kops never moved faster than the Hills that night, with but 20 minutes till party time. We emptied the linen closet and used every towel, wash cloth and sheet to mop up the stuff. We threw everything into the tub and pulled the shower curtain. I was scraping the remaining Newburg into a cereal bowl when the doorbell rang.
I scooted the kids upstairs and threatened them into silence. I should have done the same thing with their father. All of our guests lived on base as well, so most had walked over and arrived together. Jim opened the door and uttered those five words I haven’t forgotten since 1973, “Guess what Barbara just did?”
Well, that concoction became the hit of the party. There were tours into the bathroom to observe the linen mountain and party goers commented on the unique ceiling decor while taking tiny tastes of what was immediately dubbed the “Exploding Entree.” I was constantly asked for the recipe with the proviso, “Don’t forget to include how long it takes to go off!” There’s more than one way to burst onto the social scene.