a city boy's guide to the south

Welcome, friend, to the ramblings of a southerner by choice.

Saturday, June 04, 2005

The Fried Clams At Fenway

I say they're hale, these summer quahogs, globbed
in dixie cups, fat-bellied: sumos trained
since day of birth to tango in the vat.
They deserve the tangy tartar sauce daubed,
nay, slobbered on top of their crispy corn-
meal and flour soups on jackets
that give them their oversized bite.

Chew-chow-boogie, here I'm talkin' nubbins
of succulent bivalve mustered from the oven
replete with house salad and spank-me French dressing.
I find myself guessing
if anything's better with sea salt and lime.

But Jose Cuervo never played right field.
Dwight Evans did, yet he didn't make it
to Cooperstown. Perhaps the selectors
felt more at home getting
those greasy thin-necks pawned off by Johnson's
(those treacle-born scalpers of flotsammed sea meat).
And don't get me started on Mrs. Paul, please,
or that fisherman nerd from Connecticut.

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