Consider, the Lobster

Having murdered a thousand ocean-bottom insects in my lifetime, it's about time I saved one.

I was hungry for bouillabaisse, which is probably even harder to spell than it is to make.

It’s a Marseillaise fish stew, hence the way they rammed two Provençal verbs together—bolhir (to boil) and abaisar (to simmer)—to give you the basic recipe in those pre-Mark-Bittman days. But I detect a hint of baiser there as well, a delicious French kiss. Of course, it’s the kiss of death for the creatures you throw into all that bolhir and abaisar, which is part of the appeal. It is, above all, a fresh stew, because if you shop for ingredients near the dock, it’s all alive when you toss it into that steaming pot. Water boils at 212° Fahrenheit, so it couldn’t be comfortable for the sea creatures, and probably shouldn’t feel comfortable for me, either, as cook.

But none of that has stopped me from eating lobster. Lots and lots of lobster. I grew up in New England, and went to college in Maine, where pursuit of just the right lobster roll is a holy quest, and the plunging of flailing crustacean…