Fried Clams

As I begin to dream of summer in the arid mountain west, these are the things I really miss, living here:

The ocean (Atlantic)

The beach (Watch Hill, R.I.)

Hydrangeas at the beach

Gin & tonics at the beach

Humidity at the beach

Wet smelly sand

Gin & tonics + greasy fried clams at the beach while sitting by hydrangeas

Sharp salt air

Clams

I worked for 34 years for an insurance company in Connecticut. It was in a big suburban complex with landscaped grounds, recreation facilities and a nice company dining room. They used to publish the day's lunch menu on a typed notice in the hallway, and it was a highlight of the morning to go check what was offered for lunch that day. 

One day -- I kid you not -- the typed menu featured "fried claims".  

Fried claims. 

I do not make this up. 

They were  pretty good, even mordantly misspelled far from the ocean. Better yet, though, was having a bucket of them with a gin and tonic, with sand between my toes, with salt scrunching my hair and an emerging blistery sunburn on my nose, late in the afternoon, sitting on the deck of the Windjammer White Star Restaurant in Westerly, next to a hedge of hydrangeas.

I miss that.

* And I never fried a single customer's claims in 34 years . . . just so you know.