I’ve never been able to cook a lobster.  I still look at them in their holding tanks, especially when I go out to Montauk, but I don’t buy them live, and I definitely don’t cook them.  I still eat them but usually opt for the tail rather than the fresher, tastier whole lobster whose eyes I watch as I crack into his body, first tail and then claws and legs.  I see him swimming, blackish green, at the bottom of the sound or out at Montauk, scavenging, eating, fighting with his brothers or sisters, and just doing what lobsters do.  I still love the taste, love dipping the white and orange meat into the lemon butter, but it’s not a clear-cut proposition.  By the end of dinner, it feels as if I’ve eaten my pet. I guess I have Lester to thank for that, him and the memory he made for my family and me in Montauk such a long time ago.

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