travel : H
Abalone Dive date: 9/02 Friends introduce C to the fine macho art of abalone diving. With my prescription snorkel mask stolen as excuse, I landlub. Happily much to see hopping just on rocks of the icy tide pools. I get all excited having spotted a scarlet starfish. But shivering toes soon demand a return to toasty wool socks.
	Northern Californian abalone are monsters- hefty meaty monsters. C is a proud hunter having wrestled one off the ocean's floor in one freediving breath after measuring his prey for the regulation 14 inches. Abalone constantly slime and ooze well past death; we are unprepared for their slow agonizing end. I am regretful Hugo isn't here to just slurp them straight out of their shells. Having not the foresight to have brought my red pepper paste- next time I won't forget, we don't eat it raw straight off the beach as Koreans must. We picnic on sourdough, arugula, goat cheese, and a chocolate mousse concoction.
Even back at the party, I in a lonely corner munch my raw slices as everyone wants their abalone butter sauced and barbequed.
	I, also am overwhelmed by the sheer decadence of having more than 10 pounds of abalone for a single feast among less than 10. I had never enjoyed more than a  few tiny eyebrow slivers on special occasions. Now the cook was throwing out large chunks off the edge deeming them too chewy. So we regrettably gorged all night long- everyone except C who then still a faithful vegetarian refused even the smallest of morsels.