Paua

In university, some friends and I improvised a little home out of a closer-to-demolition-than-our-landlord-Andy-would-ever-like-to-admit student house that, for architectural reasons, we lovingly referred to as"The Slant". There, when our shower was in the "black mold phase" of the "paint, mold, paint, mold, paint, mold" mold-prevention program that Andy religiously observed, I took a exceptionally disgusting shower. This particular shower shines through the sea of nasty showers at The Slant because I, blinded by soap, was recklessly attacked by a shampoo caddy. Helpless as I was sudsy, I could do little more than an impromptu "I'm frightened dance" to belatedly dodge the noise. However, the really terrifying part came post-rinse, when I opened my eyes to see the black suction cups of murky guck that I was now not only sharing a tub with, but would actually have to touch in order to replace the fallen basket.

Deja vu.

Here I am, digging my thumb underneath this rough, stout and livid, living suction apparatus to pry out the black muscle that's literally hanging on to it's shell "for dear life". Now, I am a proud graduate of the school of Don't-Eat-It-Unless-You-Can-Kill-It but, thumb throbbing, I was quickly reverting to the less complicated (though related) notion of, "Don't kill it if you don't want to eat it". This had been the prevailing theory from a childhood summer debate between my aunt and my cousin who insisted that the clams WANTED to switch shells. Out of it's shell regardless, the Paua's semblance to moldy suction cups and it's nasty defence of slime and sharp contractions was making me think that this may, perhaps, be one of those "delicacies", like ant larvae or your own placenta, that really requires some unique cultural connotations to appreciate. However, next to me is this adorably fun  Kiwi woman who's hands are shucking these oversize sea snails the same way my soul was singing "Dixie" when that shampoo bottle attacked so, visibly baffled, I quite uncertainly carry on. "See that? Those are the teeth, Alex, you rip out the teeth." I am now entertaining a small crowd who, needlessly as sweetly, the Kiwi woman informs that I'm "not from here" while simultaneously out-Paua-ing me three-to-one.

Slaughter complete, we washed up with a hose and I threw the ten beautiful-as-starlight shells into a treasure trove of equally-as beautiful-as-the-night-sky Paua shells from previous harvests only to leave for a walk on the beach and find, what else but hundreds upon hundreds more, tinier, but equally beautiful Paua shells. New Zealand is a place of natural abundance.

We came back to an empty platter and a full bottle of wine. I saw "my Paua", sliced, tossed in flour and thrown on one of those flat-top barbecue grills that are all-too common "down under". To be polite, and to some extent respect the spirit of the Paua I had just killed with my own bare hands (and, really, to avoid over consuming the sweet-fleshed beautiful bright red cray that was now resting anxiously, in delectable contrast, next to it) I knew what I had to do. I took a sip of my sav, grabbed my little personal baguette-topped toothpick, and, with a look that said anything but "I'm not from here", gave it a go. It was crispy and firm, mild, chewy and... really tasty. I was shocked, it was the definition of delectible. So much so, that when there was only one slice of purple-y blackish blue outlined deliciousness left on the platter, awkward table conversation ensued until finally somebody had the audacious balls to just indulge in one last bite. Had I been the one to clear the table, I would have licked the platter.

(I wanted to end with the less-than-creative ill-humored and slightly "off" moral of "You can't judge a crustacean by it's shell" but that doesn't quite work. Instead, the adage is simply a dissertation of a the word "delicacy".)

If you're interested, and can get your hands on some Paua, here is a listing of link Paua recipes from the Paua Farmers of New Zealand.