|Clamming on the south shore of Long Island, NY|
Within the seasons there are also micro-seasons, each timed by the ocean and her annual evolution. Snapper season. Bluefish season. When the striped bass are running. Crabbing season. And clamming season.
Each has its own appeal. Clamming, for instance, is a visceral, tactile, intimate experience. Whereas with fishing or crabbing you might use a rod and reel, or net, or trap, with clamming—at least as my family practices it—it's just you and the clams.
We take a boat to an unnamed cove on the south shore of the island, where a narrow strip of barrier beaches protect the bay from the harsher waters of the open Atlantic. In this sandy-bottomed cove, lined with saltwater marsh grasses, the bottom is soft. You walk through the water methodically, wriggling your feet into the sand, feeling for the unmistakeable edge of a clam shell.
Finding a clam is moment of uncertainty and promise. Will it be a keeper? One to return to the sand? Some are too small. Some are too big. (Hard shell clams—also known as quahogs—are classified by their size, from little necks on the smaller end, to cherry stones, to chowder clams on the larger end.) And frankly, some just aren't good enough to make the cut. Some have shells that are clearly compromised ... whether through calcification, or damage, or whatever. Often, a rough-looking shell on the outside holds less-than-pristine meat on the inside. The best clams, I've learned, are ones with what Uncle Joe calls the "white smile," a lip of bright shell around the outer edge opposite the hinge. They tend to hold beautiful meat, with a shell interior of pearly white with a patch of beautiful deep purple at the back near the hinge.
This is a subtle understanding of clamming gleaned—not through years or even decades—but through a lifetime spent on and in the water. It is insight and knowledge inherited and passed on, first to my generation (to me and my cousins and brother and our significant others), and eventually, to my daughters' generation.
But the knowledge starts with my Uncle. Sometimes explicitly, and sometimes in subtler ways, he is present in many of the recipes and blog posts we write ... particularly ones that have to do with the ocean and seafood. Witness our foil packet blackfish. Whether he would accept the title or not, he is a patriarch of the family. And at the very least, he's an important influence on my—and our—love of the ocean and seafood.
|It doesn't get any fresher than this|
I have always sought family permission before sharing recipes and stories such as these. Part of me has at times felt conflicted about doing so. Am I giving away a part of my heritage? Am I compromising privileged information for the sake of a blog post or a cookbook recipe? To their credit, our family has supported the decision to share such recipes.
I think that's because heritage is as important to them as it is to me, and they see the value in sharing that message with readers. Dietary restrictions can threaten to sever you from your food heritage and your family. I hope, though, that you are inspired to maintain the connection, or to reconnect. Even if you approach old foods and old recipes with new ingredients or a new perspective (say, to make a healthier version of a beloved treat), the point is to stay connected to those foods. They feed the body, but they also feed the soul.
But back to the clams...
|The added time and effort to separate the best meat is well worth it|
We placed the clams on ice for a while. This relaxes their muscles, making the job of shucking much easier. (Some websites suggest popping them in a hot oven briefly to get them to start to open, but this prematurely begins to cook the clams, which will get chewy). Then Uncle Joe masterfully went about the work of shucking our harvest: using a clam knife to cut each of two adductor muscles that keep the clam closed, opening the shell, reserving the clam juice, and separating the meat from the shell. I can tell that I have many years of clam shucking ahead of me before I reach his level of proficiency... This time around I simply watched and learned from a master.
Then he did something that few people do, in my experience. Though you can eat the entire clam, he took extra time to cut away the digestive tract, reserving only the choicest parts of the clam meat. He also separated all that choice meat from their respective shells. (The reason why will soon be revealed...)
At last, it was time to make what we had all been looking forward to: clams oreganata, an Italian dish where clams on the half shell are lightly covered with seasoned bread crumbs and baked in the oven. They are sometimes served with a wedge of lemon to squeeze over the clams, though as my family prepares them I've seldom found the lemon necessary.
|The finished product|
Next, the recipe gets "intuitive." Place the clams on the middle rack of the oven, and after a few minutes, begin to monitor them closely. Crack the oven door and listen for a faint hissing. That's the sound of the clam juice boiling and steaming the meat. I can't give you a hard and fast time. You just need to learn through practice, as I'm still doing. When you do hear that noise, though, switch your oven to broil and continue to watch the clams closely. When the bread crumbs are golden brown, the clams are done. It's time to enjoy the fruits of your labor. (And believe me, it does involve labor if you undertake this entire process on your own. Better to have a team share the effort, or best, to have an Uncle Joe.)
|The product, finished|
It was the kind of meal that was deeply satisfying. It nourished body and soul. It was born of a day of "labor" under a summer sun. It was a communal experience, the result of shared effort. And it was gluten-free.
Whether you make this dish one day or not—and I recognize that few people will go to the length of harvesting their own clams—do me this favor: write your own real-life clams oreganata story. Collect a harvest from your garden, or carefully select fresh ingredients at your local market. Get together with your significant other, or friends, or family. Work together to make a special meal that everyone can enjoy. Share that meal; share conversation. Connect it back to your heritage, no matter if that heritage is regional, or cultural, or spiritual. Nourish your body and your soul.
That, in a way, is a kind of recipe, too. It's one that translates across cultures, across foods, across dietary restrictions.