Amid all the other things going on these days, we made time to sail a Sunfish at Napeague the other day. For the past few weeks, I have been busier than busy. Among all the other chores, I've replaced rotted deck boards and worked on the boat, that is, in addition to my day job. But an hour or so on the water was rejuvenating.
When we were done sailing, a dear friend helped me drag the Sunfish up onto the beach, after which we went footing for clams. There were a few big quahogs around; we took three, enough for a dinner of whole wheat pasta alle vongole.
Traditionally, I think of the recipe as just olive oil, garlic, parsley, and red pepper flakes. When we struck out collecting parsley from the garden, we improvised, substituting garlic scapes for garlic, and nasturtium leaves and arugula for parsley.
Footing, mentioned above, is simply shuffling along in the water, toes in the sand or mud, feeling for the characteristic immobility and sharp edges of a clam alive in its shell. All you need are a bathing suit, feet, and a town shellfish permit. There is a man I know who likes clams so much that he is always first on line when the applications open up and will quickly display permit 0001, at any opportunity.
Clams seem to me to contain everything one needs, including protein and whatever phytoplankton they happen to have in their gullets at the time they are harvested. My brother, always innovative in the kitchen, used to insist that one might survive indefinitely on a diet of brown rice and clams. One certainly could survive on crusted clam pie, which just about covers all the food groups.
Our father used to tell an anecdote about an aged, toothless Bonacker that concluded, "She can't chew butter, but she sure can gum them clams," which I think proves my brother right.