An end and a goodbye

March, as a whole, has sucked. The weather has played yo-yo with my feelings, I've seen a few of my friends be let go from the jobs they love due to "a new corporate direction", other friends suddenly ended happy relationships, and my own job took another step past indentured servitude and toward slavery. On top of this, Evie is moving back home to the West Coast. Kelly has been in sour spirits ever since she made her decision and I'm not exactly thrilled to be letting a new friend move so far away. We both know we're being selfish, but still...not the best way to end an already crappy month.

This blog was initially inspired after the "Bone Marrow Incident", but another factor that pushed me into start writing this was Evie and her Chinatown trips. I have eaten in Chinatown before, but I could have never prepared for the spectacle that is a Chinatown night. Gathered in a restaurant that I have passed but never eaten in before now, we gather in one of the larger tables tucked away in the corner. Our waitress (a woman that has been involved in these events well before I ever met Kel) already knows what to expect. She piles wine glasses, water glasses (extras for my camel boyfriend), and already knows we'll be getting the usual fish-fries and pea-pod stems, as well as an aquarium in butter and garlic. Each person drinks (at least) two bottles of wine and fills themselves with enough fish that they start to produce omega-3 on their own. The next day, I am pickled and saying things like "I had oyster three different ways" or "it's the whole silver fish, eyeballs and all", and my co-workers wonder how I am still standing.

As was only appropriate, we all gathered again to send Evie off with another Chinatown trip. Getting there early, Kelly and I meet with one of her friends and start prepping the table with our waitress. Like professionals, we arrange the table and start planning for the main event. This time, however, we have a set item that must be featured: king crab. As in Deadliest Catch, the Goliath beetle of the sea, big enough to completely cover my face and wrap its legs completely around my head sort of king crab. For large parties, the restaurant cooks it three ways and Evie has set her sights on enjoying one before she leaves.

We order the usual items and wait as everyone starts trickling in. Wine is clustered on the lazy-susan and we pour a little bit of bubbles to get things started. And then they bring him out. Carried in a spare tray used to bus tables, he thumps and scrambles to stand but can't get his feet to steady on the slick plastic. His carapace is thorny and deep burnt umber. His mandibles twitch nervously and he falls with another thump as he fails to stand. Kelly instantly names him Lloyd and we try to figure out how to cook him. Lloyd, with his constant attempts to escape, knows his fate.

Like tourists, we get Evie to lift him out of the tub and take part in a photo shoot. She smiles wide and hooks her fingers under his back legs. His front legs twitch and shift to get free, to fall to the floor so he can scuttle away, but Evie keeps her fingers tightly wrapped and far away from his pincers. She twists and faces each photographer's smartphone, laughing at one crude joke or the next, and gently hovers Lloyd over the tub to keep him from dripping salt water over the carpet. Lloyd finally makes peace with his crabby god by the last photo, pulling his legs tight to his body. We give him back and start on glass four or five.

In what seems like moments, Lloyd's legs come out of the kitchen. Deep fried with ginger and garlic, we peel back the now coral-colored shell and suck out the soft white meat. I have clearly never had real crab before as the flesh is soft and flaky. Like a barbarian, I take his horny legs in my fingers and pry back his former armor with sharp snaps, like someone cracking their knuckles, and smear the buttery mess along my cheek in haste to get through my portion of legs.

By the time the pea-pod stems and fish-fries come and we have started platting those, Llyod's body is put on the small space on the table not occupied with wine bottles. Steamed and a little tougher, much like the slightly rubbery meat of lobster tails, the body is sprinkled with scallions that give just a little sharpness. Speeches are made, more wine is poured, and it's almost like Evie is just having us all get together for another night of drinking and feasting.

By the time the last of Lloyd comes out of the kitchen, we are all starting to get a little nostalgic and emotional. His shell is flipped upside-down and filled with scrambled eggs and what I believe are brains or crab eggs. I pour myself a glass of the bubbly rose and tap Kelly's knee with mine. "She's my Boston family," he says and I nod, trying to be supportive. Having watched most of my friends go off to other parts of the country, I understand what he's feeling. We finish licking the juices off of our plates and finishing the almost empty bottles. Kelly gives Evie a quick goodbye, knowing we will be seeing her at least one more time, but is a little quiet as we ride home on the T. I try to let him be, but keep his hand in mine. After all, I know how much this month has sucked.

Let me count the ways...

It is usually this way many a morning. I wake up with my alarm pulling at my ears, punching me in the face with each shrill beep and squeak. I pull myself from the comforting arms of the bed (and often Kelly) to stare my reflection down in the mirror and dare him to say something. My hair is a mess, smooshed down along some strange plane that I can't pretend is a chosen style. My entire face hurts from the pressure building behind it and being forced to squint in the angry sunlight. I remain in my inhuman state until my third cup of coffee, where I start to return to the self I abandoned the night before.

On the mornings after that Kelly gets up with me, he is chipper from the get-go. Shiny and excited in the poisonous way that only morning people can be, he chatters at me, goading me to answer something more than "ugh," "meh," or "I will kill you" in a bleary, raspy monotone. Unlike most of humanity (leading me to believe my boyfriend is a gay robot), Kelly doesn't suffer from hangovers.

Before dating him, I didn't really drink that much. In college, yes...but only on weekends and the stray Thursday that I didn't have a meeting at one of the magazines I interned at or with my thesis advisor. I also am a fairly small man, or as Samantha likes to say, "You're too damn skinny." My mother also gets giggly from just smelling wine, so the fates are against me for having any sort of tolerance. Where most would be happy to have such a "cheap date," Kelly is slightly embarrassed and surprised the times that I manage to keep up.

One morning at brunch, he watches me sit silently, sip my third or fourth cup of life, and scrape at the remains of my pancakes, before saying "You know, you should write about the downsides of dating me." I arch an eyebrow. "You always brag about the free food, drinks, and going to these great parties and things, but you never tell them about the other stuff."

And he's right. Therefore, let me include my list of top three things that I do not enjoy about dating a foodie...

1. "Why hello Mr. Scale..."
Since I have started dating Kelly, I have gained a lot of weight. When we first met, my doctor was concerned that I was a little too thin and wanted me to try and go from 140lbs to at least 160lbs. At this time, my pants were too large and I had to start wearing a 30-inch waist. Now, eight months later, I am heavier than I have ever been. With all the rich foods, alcohol, and constant eating out, I have shot past my doctor's desired weight by 10lbs. My old pants that were too big are a pinch too tight in the waist and I have already begun trying to remember my old work-out schedule.

2. "Stupid, vile Daystar"
As mentioned above, Kelly has an iron liver that refuses to let him be punished. I, on the other hand, can't have more than a glass of wine before I have to start chugging water to combat the effects. I also have a caffeine addiction, which means that I am not safe for human consumption in the mornings until I have emptied a coffee mug. Kelly doesn't share my habits and likes to test how far he can go each morning by putting his hands in the lion's den and grabbing the tail.

3. "Could you sign it 'to Sherry, love Kelly'?"
It doesn't really matter where we go out, it is inevitable that I will be subjected to another foodie who must talk about X while Kelly and I are waiting for our entrees. Boston is a small city and the industry is even smaller. Burger joints, bagel shops, even a hole-in-the-wall donut shop in Allston all had someone in them that recognized Kelly and wanted to talk about this person's list at such a place. At first it wasn't an issue, and I actually thought it was cute to watch him geek out with another wine buyer or chef. Now, I just want to eat my bagel in peace and not have to worry about contributing to a conversation that was only half in English. "Beaujo-who? No, never heard of him...pass the cream cheese?"