Clamming Up

Hey, ya'll! What's the haps? Where you been all my life?

It's been pretty quiet round these parts, but my beloved Woodrow spurred me to let ya'll know that I'm alive and kickin' it.

And then Sturdy Girl, one of my favs and muses, said, "Hey, where the hell are you?" But she said it much more eloquently, which is one of the qualities I truly admire in her (in addition to being a redhead and a generally bodacious woman).

So, I am here to report it's been a summer full of everything and nothing.

All of my freckles came out to play, I'm eating a lot of fresh basil, I went wedding dress shopping (not for me, thankyouverymuch) and we just had our family reunion, which means one thing to my brood: Steamed clams.

Well, two things, actually: Steamed clams and Miller High Life.

No one is sure where the clams first came from; no one really cares. They're kind of like my Cousin Lenny—one day they just showed up and things haven't been the same for anyone since. The clams are delicious and chewy and best enjoyed with melted butter and the Lake Erie breezes.

So, that's what's been rockin' in the Heart of Rock N' Roll: bivalve mollusks.

Oh, and just trying to make light of the impending sense I'm running out of time that beats ceaselessly and strong within me. The usual.

I'm not sure what the actual deadline pertains to but I can hear an incessant ticking in my heart. And no, kids, I don't think it's that biological doodad, though I have truly, truly, truly enjoyed being around the smaller variety of humans lately.

God, they are clever, aren't they? Or maybe just the variety that my family produces are especially clever, but I could watch them all day long, like little tiny real-life movies. We grow 'em up right. Must be all of the pirogies.

Still, I can say with 98.3% assurance that it's not my need to mommy someone that's got me constantly feeling like I've left the house forgetting something, only to arrive at the grocery store without my pants on. (That only happened twice, but it's not something you soon forget.)

For some reason, to help me figure it out, I have adopted the odd strategy of shutting out friends (sorry, guys—love you all. Mean it) and opening up (and I mean wiiiiiiiiiiiide open) to strangers.

You name it: blind dates, the little punk bagging my groceries (with reusable cloth bags), the nice neighbor down the street who walks his dog at the same time I do—they've all befallen my desperate and awkward conversations lately.

I guess I'm searching for a new connection. Or even an old connection made new. Oh, hell. I don't know. I'd settle for a rousing game of Connect Four at this point.

Funny then, isn't it, that I've been so hesitant to write about all of my adventures and reconnect with all of you lovely Internet people?

In the Comments section, tell me your general feelings about clamming—both in terms of culinary uses and (non)communication techniques.