The sock model called last night for evening check-in.  He was three hours ahead in Florida.  He said, “What are you doing?”

“Sewing.  I’m taking a break from knitting.  What are you doing?”

“Oh, not much.  We just got home a while ago.  We went out for oysters.”

“Oysters!  Damn it!  I want oysters.”  I could picture them in my mind, a platter of a dozen raw fat oysters on the half shell, served chilled on a bed of ice.  “How were they?”

“Yeah…”  By the tone of his voice, Sean didn’t sound too thrilled about his experience with these oysters.  Sometimes, you just get a bad batch.  Not bad like food-poisoning bad, but just bad like bottom-of-the-barrel, end-of-the-season, so-sad-no-more-good-oysters-until-next-year kind of bad.  He said, “Remember when sometimes we’d get them, and they’d be all small, and kinda stringy and not so good?”

“Yeah, I remember.”

“Remember when they’d be really good.  Like that really fresh, fat kind of oyster.”

“Yeah…”  I remembered.  I waited to hear him tell me that these most recent oysters weren’t as good as the ones we used to have.  “And… ?”

“Oh, no, that’s all.  These were that really fresh, fat kind.”  Then he started laughing.  “They were really good.”

“Ha, ha,” I said.  “I’m going back to sewing.”