I will probably offend everyone. But what exactly is great about clams. They are just filters of the ocean. I don’t understand have rocks as my mom used to call them. In your pasta. Perhaps it’s the fresh garlic and parsley. Which I think you can dip a shoe in butter and garlic will taste good. I will pass give me pasta simply with butter and garlic. And as we had with our French cousins. Pasta garlic 🧄. And fresh parsley with good white wine
When I was growing up on the north shore of Lawn Guy Land, there'd be one long weekend every summer when my father and his fellow teachers from Manhasset High School would rent a couple of bungalows in the beachy fields of Quogue, on the East End long before it became the redoubt of whirlibird marauders. We would pile into the Rambler American and head to the south shore for three days of corn, clam-digging, and lobster (plus beer, plenty of beer, for the grown-ups) culminating in the rousing Saturday-night clambake against the backdrop of lapping waves, sparks flying starward from the fire, and, later, moonbeams. I remember singing, and toasting marshmallows, of course, but nothing could match the briny gimlet sea-ness of our hard-won digging from the hours before. My father devised, as an invitation to the event. a highly detailed, anatomically explicit diagram of a clam, in hopes of deterring the squeamish and leaving more for the rest of us. (Style note: I once wore my white clam-diggers to school. Ill-advised for the mirthless junior-high crowd, the cackles of derision still ring in my ears.) That bar would not be matched until many years and lifetimes later, during a trip along the Amalfi coast, when we stayed in Positano at Il San Pietro and had pasta with clams devised tableside, overlooking the Gulf of Salerno, the Isle of Capri, and the starry dome over the Mediterranean beyond. Somewhat different than the parched potato-and-onion fields of the South Shore...
Damn you! It’s 5 AM in NYC, I just read this, and all I can think about is clam pasta!
Haha!
I will probably offend everyone. But what exactly is great about clams. They are just filters of the ocean. I don’t understand have rocks as my mom used to call them. In your pasta. Perhaps it’s the fresh garlic and parsley. Which I think you can dip a shoe in butter and garlic will taste good. I will pass give me pasta simply with butter and garlic. And as we had with our French cousins. Pasta garlic 🧄. And fresh parsley with good white wine
I get that, but good fresh clams are very sweet, and their liquid makes a wonderful sauce.
Ok. 🤷♀️🧄
Bravo! Linguine and clams is Candy’s favorite dish!
When I was growing up on the north shore of Lawn Guy Land, there'd be one long weekend every summer when my father and his fellow teachers from Manhasset High School would rent a couple of bungalows in the beachy fields of Quogue, on the East End long before it became the redoubt of whirlibird marauders. We would pile into the Rambler American and head to the south shore for three days of corn, clam-digging, and lobster (plus beer, plenty of beer, for the grown-ups) culminating in the rousing Saturday-night clambake against the backdrop of lapping waves, sparks flying starward from the fire, and, later, moonbeams. I remember singing, and toasting marshmallows, of course, but nothing could match the briny gimlet sea-ness of our hard-won digging from the hours before. My father devised, as an invitation to the event. a highly detailed, anatomically explicit diagram of a clam, in hopes of deterring the squeamish and leaving more for the rest of us. (Style note: I once wore my white clam-diggers to school. Ill-advised for the mirthless junior-high crowd, the cackles of derision still ring in my ears.) That bar would not be matched until many years and lifetimes later, during a trip along the Amalfi coast, when we stayed in Positano at Il San Pietro and had pasta with clams devised tableside, overlooking the Gulf of Salerno, the Isle of Capri, and the starry dome over the Mediterranean beyond. Somewhat different than the parched potato-and-onion fields of the South Shore...
Wow, great story Jeremy! Reminds me of digging clams (steamers) in Maine ages ago. Nothing tastes better.