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August 14, 2006
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I can't think of oysters, see them on a menu, in an ice-filled bin in the store, or see their shells washed up on the shore, without thinking of how Susan smiled and laughed and joked as she dug into a platter of oysters, oysters, oysters, six different kinds, prepped in ten different ways.
Raw, smoked, sauteed... for all I know, grilled and skewered and boiled and mashed.
A bright blue martini in her hand, delight in her eyes and joy radiating out. And oysters. She did so love them.
I miss you, Susan.
jill (pericat)