Without further ado, I would like to present to you my summer’s culinary feat: lobster. They have been haunting me since last year when I became determined to tackle the laundry list of things I had yet to conquer. I never quite made it to lobster murder, frankly, I sabotaged myself on the rare occasion I summed up enough courage to give it a try. I’m weak people. Killing things just isn’t my forte. Especially when things include large, squirming crustaceans with foot-long antennae that sweep and wiggle and try to attack you while death-staring you with black, beady eyes and have legs that move like spiders. And you don’t want to get me started on my fear of spiders. My fear runs so deep I feel as if those with arachnophobia have it good, because I have “mess-my-pants-in-fear-as-I-loudly-scream-but-comes-out-silient-because-my-voice-box-is-broken-as-I’m-shaking-from-paranoia-at-the-microscopic-imaginary-spider-in-the-corner-across-the-room.” I have a spidey sense, and it goes off approximately 173.4 times a day. Ask my husband. He must kill them.

Anyways, I’ve been able to brush off birthday requests for lobster with the fake legitimate excuse that they are expensive (true excuse being I do no murder). And it’s true. Lobsters are pricey which is why I had no grounds for refusal when our friend traveled up to his stomping grounds in Maine and brought home an abundance of live, mammoth (ahem, some where 8-pounds!), inexpensive lobsters right around the time my husband’s birthday cropped up. We claimed two, Fred and Pepito. And had them summoned to lobster heaven while I was not present. However, we (read: I made my husband) went to battle trying to claim the meat within their exoskeletons by ourselves. It was an epic, messy battle involving chef knives, nut crackers, fondue skewers, hammers and band-aids. We should have watched the youtube video that showed us how to easily, and neatly free the lobster meat with a simple pair of scissors, but hindsight is always 20/20.

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We’re chiming in from the beach this week, but before you start perusing our few vacation pictures and getting jealous over what seems like the picture perfect family vacation, let me just tell you this: we booked a week long vacation in a beautiful two bedroom beach house with a huge granite-clad kitchen, hard wood floors that were pristinely clean and baby gak-free (ohmygawd yes!), was surprisingly and wonderfully wicker-free, and came complete with an adorable front yard hammock swing for two during the week that was 1. muy caliente, similar to what I imagine a cayenne pepper dry rub on your tongue would feel like, except not just contained to the mouthal region. 2. Raining, raining, and raining as predicted for the only week we’d be hoping to catch some rays instead of thunderstorms and a few random doses of lighting and down pours keeping us permanently sealed up inside. 3. Came directly after the week that everything went wrong, including our AC crumbling into shambles 18-hours prior to leaving, and 4. A dramatic teething epicenter after my 7-month old decided to unexpectedly without warning suddenly grow and pop out his first two itty bitty teef which carried along the associated grumpiness that accompanies such endeavors. I mean, really. I hate to sound like the world’s biggest complainer here, but is it just me or does anyone else feel like their life seems to turn completely upside down as if you, your world and all its contents were baton twirled in a rain stick at the most inopportune moments.

I promise, though, not to complain, or even mention the staggering list of negatives. Regardless of everything, we are having ourselves one of the best, relaxing, fun vacations we could have. The sun has popped out on a few occasions letting us take baby to the beach where he’s experienced everything from naps in salty ocean breezes, to face planting in hot sand with a full tasting menu of all its glorious grit, to the feeling of cool ocean waves lapping at toes and baby rolls. A sand castle was even attempted, though quickly ditched as the heat wave we tried so desperately to escape never let us out of its grasp and ran us right back inside. We’ve even managed to have a few beautiful sunsets as I seem to be the typical woman and drag my husband across islands to see which spot gives me, err, us the best viewing advantage of this daily occurrence. He never gets annoyed — I’m so lucky.

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On Thursday my husband and I woke up earlier than humanly possible (being parents makes you super human and thus able and unfortunately familiar with getting up before things like the sun, and other life forms) and schlepped ourselves to the airport and flew all the way to Massachusetts. Boston, to be more specific, if you couldn’t tell from the title all five inches above this sentence. It was impromptu, meaning it was planned three weeks before we left, but we decided to forget about all the packing needed for an overnight trip our wee tot would be making to camp spoil me (ahem, grandparents baby oasis spa manor fun house) which left us scrambling to get everything ready and thus cutting into our precious 5 4 3 hours of sleep.

All day I kept waiting to feel guilty. Guilt over finally leaving my son with someone other than myself or husband for more than two whole hours, but something about Boston captivated me like no other city, err, at least of the four I’ve managed to be in. To be honest, I forgot did think about him between the beautiful spring popping up in window boxes and tree lined sidewalks, the cobbled streets, and after I looked down alleys that look nothing like the creepy, dark, crime-mob-boss-kill-you-death alleys of NYC or D.C. or Sydney. No, these alleys, to be perfectly 5th grade here, took me back to the 1700s. Where I imagined once upon a time a corset, hoop-skirt clad woman darted through to escape a harrasser, or where scecret coded letters were passed, or the way to a back entrance of a underground meeting — yes, this is all very National Treasurer, but nonetheless, the alleys seemed quaint, historic and full of secrets and stories. Then again, it was Beacon Hill, I’m sure the majority of Boston is just like any other city.

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Josh loves fish tacos. I mean, loves fish tacos. He becomes an obsessed little monster every time we leave for sandy shores and salty waves. And seeing as we are currently in vacation mode, as a much needed get away has been booked, I figured I would nip this little obsession in the bud before I have to take time out of napping in a hammock, sipping on an ice cold drink or reading — really, I think this plan is genius.

However, there are several things I don’t understand when it comes to Josh. Toilet paper must go over, not under? Food is to be wrapped up immediately if it is going to sit on the counter for longer than 5 minutes? The incessant need to have a fish taco every time you smell salt water? It’s great stuff to ponder when trying to drown out the hysterical cries of a two year old on a 7-hour flight cross country, but we still have a few weeks before I must answer such questions. Instead I chose to just go with it — it rocks the boat, and thus our happy little marriage, a little less.

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Shrimp on the barbie is false I tell you, just plain false. We spent a week in the land down under and two kind Aussies (Hi Dave! Hi Cathy!) took us under their wing and showed us what real outback food is. “Shrimp? Is that what you call it? No. It’s prawns.” Because, hey, that’s more masculine and more sexy to say than “shrimp”. I mean shrimp sounds wimpy, right? And that is how we realized we were being fed false advertising. We wanted the real deal, the true cuisine of Australia and so we did. We ate seafood for lunch and kangaroo for dinner, snacked on crocodile jerky and slathered our toast with smelled and left on the side of our plate vegemite for breakfast. But we kept going back to these prawns — they seemed to be more meaty and thick, perhaps it was their name, perhaps it was the Manly beach waves they were catching but either way, these prawns demanded to be replicated in my kitchen.

Now there are a few firm beliefs I have about shrimp, err, prawns. First: butter, garlic, wine and seafood all belong together — always. Like, there should be no discussion on this. This is an eleventh commandment sort of belief. Second: I do not, and should not have to peel anything when eating, most especially prawns. It gets my fingers messy, and, well, we’re not in the fan club of messy eating. It also prevents prawns from soaking in the goodness of buttery, boozy, garlic broth and is instead wasted on the shell. And thirdly: under no circumstances are you ever to overcook your prawns. The rubbery, chewy, bland flavor they attain, no matter how much boozy goodness they are submerged in, is unacceptable.

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