Lessons of The Oyster Po’Boy

I’ve read that heroin addicts are always chasing after that initial first amazing high, and they can never seem to find it again. It is the memory of that first out-of-this-world high that keeps them hooked. I think that longing for things to be exactly as how I remembered them, is why I am always wanting to try new things. I often find my repeat visits to places, or to restaurants, or to shows or movies that I have already seen, or to old neighborhoods which I used to live in, to be somewhat disappointing. Then, I feel deflated. I’ve unfairly built the experience up in my head, and it’s floating around like a pink cloud, and then the reality of the place smacks me up side the head, and the pink cloud turns gray and starts raining.

Yesterday I had one of those experiences that reminded me of this quirk of mine. A couple of years ago, on a perfectly beautiful sunny day, my husband and I stopped at this quaint little shack, which holds very limited working hours. They sell mostly fried oyster po’boys, at this sweet little sea shanty. That day, I had the most amazing oyster sandwich that I have ever had, and most likely, will ever have again, in my lifetime. I have heard that oysters are aphrodisiacs. That day, that sandwich was so good, it was orgasmic. The perfectly cooked oysters were falling out of the fresh baked bread, just toppling out of it like marbles, there were so many of them. The remoulade sauce was precisely the consummate accent, to accentuate the incredible taste of the oysters. Finally, the farm fresh lettuce and tomato, was the perfect compliment to ease any guilt one may (fleetingly) have of the fried food orgy. I half expected a perfect pearl to be at the bottom of my little paper bowl, after I devoured this seafood ecstasy.

The next time we went to the oyster bar, my husband and I were sadly and yet, not really unexpectedly, disappointed. The sandwich was a poor substitute for what we had been dreaming about, since our last experience there. The cooks were stingy with the oysters in the sandwich this particular time, and there was too much, not so perfectly baked doughy bread, for the amount of meat on the sandwich. I hate when meatballs or hot dogs are overcome by their carbohydrate coverings. Do you remember Wendy’s “Where’s the beef?” commercials? This experience was easily, “Where’s the oyster bed?” My husband and I wrote that day off as an “off” day for the cook, and we let it go.

Now as I mentioned, this restaurant keeps strange hours, so it’s hard for people to get their fix when they want it. Memories of that first, perfect concoction had been swirling in my mind for quite sometime, so I called the shack, in the middle of the afternoon to make a takeout order, that we would have for our dinner. I couldn’t wait to open the white paper wrapping, expecting the oysters to burst forth, in all of their juicy glory, begging to be my physical and emotional rapture, to give me a glow that would last me the entire weekend, at least. Instead when I opened the wrapper, it was like a bag of chips that deflates with a “Whoosh!”, letting out all of the air it held, to keep a couple of broken chips of chips, floating around in the bag, like astronauts. This time the oyster sandwich was a minuscule helping of an over-breaded, over-fried oyster-like substance, slathered in goopy sauce, shredded brown iceberg lettuce, on stale bread. In short, it sucked.

I wonder if it’s not really so bad to go to the same places, and to do the same things, as it is more important, to keep my expectations in check. It is said that comparison is the thief of happiness. Why should I compare every experience with the same person, or the same place, or the same thing, with my best previous experience or encounter with these same entities? Is that fair? Maybe I should be more willing to look at things with fresh eyes, and an open mind and to drop my expectations (which are often built up to fantasy level, using my very clever, but not always realistic imagination)? Maybe in subsequent encounters, I should look for the hidden nuances which I may have missed, having been overwhelmed with speechless joy when trying something for the first time. I should also remind myself that I am no longer “the same me” who had this encounter, the first time. In that sense, everything is really “the first time” for anything, because a new layer of me, has shown up to the familiar experience, having gone through a lot of life, in between visits with a favorite person, or to a treasured place or with an adored thing.

So in the end, I didn’t get a great oyster sandwich yesterday. It wasn’t even a good oyster sandwich. But I do think that I got a little “pearl” of wisdom and self awareness that I’ll keep tucked in my pocket. It will be good to pull out this little pearl in my mind, to remind me, that the next time that I feel disappointed or let down, maybe I just need to look for what I am getting out of this particular experience, during this unique go around, with it. There’s always something unique to notice, or some lesson to be gleaned, from just about anybody or anything. My little pearly wisdom will remind me that pearls are hard and rare to find, in a pile of sand, being held in any one oyster shell. While I can enjoy and elate in the fleeting pearl moments of life, I am reminded that it is all of the common sand, that forms the pearls, in the end. And sand has its merits, too. Sand makes the pearls. All is needed to get a full appreciation of life. The common ordinary moments are the sands of time in life, and along the way, the pearly highlighted moments stand out, in order to remind us of how really, utterly breathtaking life can be.