Shortly after the earth surface cooled,
When I was a boy…
Every summer it seemed in August
A clambake the fam’ly enjoyed.
It would be in Ida and Andy’s yard,
A South Street, Douglas, locale…
The clams would soak in a corn meal bath
Overnight til the grit expelled.
The cousins would dig a pit,
Light a bonfire filled with rocks….
When the rocks were good and hot
They’d put in the clam pots.
Covered over with seaweed
The steam lusciously smelled…
Some of the clams were set aside
To be breaded and fried to taste well.
Along with clams, they steamed up corn
On the cob that tasted so sweet…
With beer on tap and soda for
The kids, and coffee for later before sleep.
We all brought something to pass,
A dish of salad or beans…
Sometimes ham or turkey would arrive
Depending on a person’s means.
Uncle Andy (now gone and missed)
Might fall asleep at the ballgame…
We kids once named him the umpire,
But he worked hard, so could (him) blame?
I don’t know why I didn’t like steamed,
I missed out on the best food of all…
Tasted them since then and they were great—
Just thinking of what I missed, that’s all.