A couple of weeks ago, we went to an oyster roast on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. I don’t particularly like oysters, but man, I love an oyster roast. I love the smoky, briny smell in the air, and the gathering around the tables, and the sense that this is an old, beloved tradition that connects us to the people who came before, and will connect us to those who come after. And the mess. I love the mess.

Oyster shells everywhere, spilled butter and sauce, dirty knives and grimy gloves. I just love it. I think there’s something homey and comfortable about it, and about making that kind of mess with other people who appreciate the tradition, too.

And Graham does like oysters.

So, that’s a plus.