And now for something completely different! I am a huge Monty Python fan, having watched the original shows in England when I was a boy. I could see the Pythons using this title in one of their sketches (Eric Idle sitting comfortably in an interview chair – “Our guest tonight – Steve Doyon to
discuss his book of post-modernist poetry, Lemons and the Urban Dilletante”). Yes, I admit it – I am completely a dilettante. What is a dilettante, some of you may be asking (and, what the hell does it have to do with lemons!) – to quote the OED, a dilettante is “A person who cultivates an area of interest, such as the arts, without real commitment or knowledge”. As self-deprecating as I am, that’s a bit harsh. I prefer to define it as a dabbler – someone who approaches a field of interest from a purely amateur perspective.
I think I’ve been somewhat of a dilettante my entire life – from as long as I can remember, I’ve always had an intense curiosity about a wide variety of subjects, and for many of these, it wasn’t enough for me to just read about them – I was always interested in trying things. Whether it was dabbling in chemistry (multiple chemistry sets), electronics (building my own burglar alarm), or a myriad of other passing interests that used to drive my parents nuts. This continued into adulthood, always with the same pattern – (a) something catches my interest; (b) I read everything I can find on the subject; (c) I start planning my hands-on approach; (d) I complete the initial experiment; (e) after a brief moment of reveling in my (often dubious) accomplishment, I 
move on to the next passing interest. One year it was a garden. My grandfather used to have the most beautiful vegetable garden at his home in Caribou. It was quite large (too large for him and my grandmother), and he grew an astounding variety of vegetables – several varieties of carrots, potatoes, cabbages, beans, corn, tomatoes, squash, pumpkins, lettuces, spinach, onions, cucumbers, peas, beets, radishes, turnips – the list was endless. He used to have a local farmer plow his garden for him, and he was so meticulous 
– keeping notes on the weather and what he planted; rotating crops; staggering his plantings so he had vegetables all season long. He was most definitely not a dilettante. My approach, inspired by my grandfather, was, unfortunately, a textbook case in dilettantism. First the excitement, generated by moving to a townhouse that had a real backyard (in Florida) – finally, a fertile field in which to replicate my grandfathers beloved garden! Then the intense reading – at that time, with no internet, this involved multiple trips to the local bookstores, buying many books on backyard gardening, and reading late into the night. This period, for the dilettante, is probably the best part – dreaming about what you could accomplish with your own hands! I ambitiously measure off a plot, covering half of my backyard. The backyard had not been maintained in some time – so there were several days with weed whackers and a lawn mower to tame the wildness. Hard work is often the death of nascent dilettante ventures. In this case, I persevered. Next step was 
preparing the soil. After a half-hearted attempt using a hoe and shovel, I quickly realized that power tools were going to be necessary. Renting a roto-tiller turned out to be quite easy…using one was a different story. These machines must be featured in one of Dante’s circles – they are loud, they are smelly, and they alternate from not moving at all, to jerking your arms from their sockets – entirely exhausting. I quickly reset my expectations and reduced the size of the garden by half. Unfortunately, I didn’t reset my ambitions with respect to the amount and variety of what I had anticipated to plant – resulting in an overcrowded garden, and one that produced barely a few servings of each item I had planted. What followed was a frustrating few months of tending the garden – the horrible sandy soil of Florida proved great at growing weeds, and terrible at growing 
robust vegetables. At some point I just gave up trying to control the weeds, and let the garden go. Finally, I began to harvest and enjoy the fruits of my labor! The magic quickly wore off – while there is some pleasure in consuming vegetables that you grew yourself, you realize that it’s far easier, and cheaper, to buy better vegetables produced by professionals, from your local farmers market. That was my last attempt at large scale gardening (however there were many other attempts at more specific approaches – herbs; tomatoes one year; etc.) – like most dilettantes, I ticked the box and moved on to the next thing.
Now on to lemons. Who doesn’t love lemons? Turns out that lemons have a relatively short history in terms of their use in food. The origins of lemons are a bit murky, but they appear to have originated somewhere in northeastern India (probably as a cross between a citron and a bitter orange) around 2500 years ago. Despite being cultivated, however, their use was primarily ornamental. Gradually spread through the Middle East, northern Africa, and Europe by Arab traders, it wasn’t until the mid-15th century, in Genoa, that lemons began to be widely used as a culinary ingredient. I found this part of 
their history to be interesting, and yet odd. Here you have a fruit that has so many uses in cooking, both as a flavoring, and more importantly, to introduce acid (which provides preservation qualities as well, something very important in those days), yet, it took almost 2000 years after their introduction before they began to be widely used in cooking. In any case, once they began to be used in cooking, their usage quickly spread, especially throughout the Mediterranean. We have Christopher Columbus to thank for bringing lemons to the New World – he brought lemon seeds to Hispaniola (now the Dominican Republic and Haiti), and cultivation rapidly spread throughout the warm climates of South and Central America, as well as parts of North America. Now lemons are an integral part of so many different cuisines – Italian, Greek, Moroccan, Caribbean Latin, Spanish, etc.
OK, lemons are great – so what? What do lemons have to do with this story. Well, first – Paula and I definitely have a lemon-centric palate. There are always lemons in our refrigerator, and almost always a cut lemon on our table at dinner – we squeeze it on our meats, pasta, etc. – we love tartness in our food, and have found it to be a great flavor enhancer. For us, lemons are an essential part of our kitchen. And it turns out that there are many different things you can do with lemons in the pantry. Over the course of the last 5 years, my kitchen ADHD tendencies have collided with my love of lemons, and their flavor profile -the citrus flavor; the brightness; the acidity. And so, readers, I get to the subject matter here – three ways to enjoy lemons that anyone can prepare in their kitchen.
Granita
Every heard of a granita? Many people haven’t, but it’s essentially the poor man’s sorbet. That may be short-changing granita a bit – but it’s a frozen dessert (or palate cleanser) that is generally made with no special equipment other than a freezer. Sugar, water, and flavorings, combined, partially frozen, then scraped or agitated over time to produce a granular, crystalline, refreshing dessert. It’s not (usually) as smooth as sorbet, but it’s more intense 
and smooth than Italian ice. While traditionally made with citrus fruit, it can be made with a variety of flavorings – including almonds, coffee, and chocolate. Granita seems to have originated in Sicily, the land of my wife’s ancestors. One hot day, I happened to channel surf across a program on traditional Sicilian lemon granita. The video pulled me in – crystal clear blue Mediterranean waters, Sicilian landscapes of lemon and olive trees – a journey from harvesting the lemons, to making the granita, and then enjoying on a 
fabulous terrace overlooking the water. It was the middle of July in NYC, and I had to have some granita. And not just any granita – the program was specific that the best granita is made with Sicilian lemons – but those that couldn’t get Sicilian lemons could substitute Meyer lemons. The process looked easy – make a simple syrup, add lemon zest and lemon juice, let it infuse and cool; put in the freezer, let it partially freeze, then scrape the frozen juice with the tines of a fork, back in the freezer, more scraping – until all the liquid has been converted into a granular, frozen treat. But…where to get the lemons. I quickly found out that it was impossible to get real Sicilian lemons in NYC – so on to the close substitute, Meyer lemons. Meyer lemons are 
generally grown in California – they have a slightly less acidic flavor than regular lemons, and the fruit is rounder. I was convinced that the only way to make anything close to true Sicilian granita was to procure Meyer lemons. The search began…we spent several weeks, rushing all over the city on my search for Meyer lemons. Paula was initially game for the hunt, but after little early success, my obsession with finding Meyer lemons grew, and Paula found herself caught up in my irrational pursuit. Every place I went to (small gourmet shops; ethnic grocery stores; etc.) hadn’t even heard of Meyer lemons, let alone stock them! Finally, I found them – Eataly, the Mario Batali 
gourmet supermarket/food emporium, received a shipment. At 3 times the price of regular lemons, they weren’t cheap. But I convinced myself it was a small price to pay for authentic (or nearly so) Sicilian granita. I found a recipe and made my granita. It was really good – refreshing, perfect for our hot and humid NYC summers. The Meyer lemons, of course, were the key ingredient…without them, what would you have? Not authentic granita, but just an imitation. A month later I found that Eataly didn’t have any more Meyer lemons, so, desperate for my granita, I bought some regular lemons. I made the ersatz “Sicilian” granita and decided not to tell Paula about my desperate substitution. Her response – and I reluctantly agreed with her – the granita tasted great…she didn’t notice any difference. All those weeks obsessing over finding Meyer lemons, only to discover that – for something like granita, anyway – we really couldn’t tell the difference. In any case, we made granita 
many times over that summer – lemon granita; watermelon granita; even a basil lime granita. They were all great – but like all my dilletante pursuits, I moved on to the next thing and haven’t made granita since. Here’s a recipe for Sicilian Granita – feel free to use regular lemons – tell everyone you used imported Sicilian lemons, they’ll never know the difference!
- 2 cups water
- 3/4 cup sugar
- Juice from 7-8 lemons (almost a cup and a half), plus zest from 3 of the lemons
Stir the water and sugar in a pan over medium high heat. Bring to a boil to dissolve the sugar, then turn off the heat. Let the syrup cool for 10 minutes, then add the lemon juice and lemon zest, stirring to combine. Allow it to come to room temperature.
Pour the mixture (some people strain it, but I like the little bits of pulp and zest in my granita) into a glass or metal pan or baking dish (a 9 x 13 works great – 
you want it to spread reasonably thin) and put it in the freezer. Allow it to freeze for 1 hour, then take it out and scrape it with a fork. Put it back in the freezer for 2 more hours, scraping it every 30 minutes. You can serve this with mint leaves, and it will keep in a granular state for a week if kept frozen and covered. In Sicily, it is traditionally eaten at breakfast with a brioche!
Limoncello
You ever been to an Italian restaurant that offered you a small glass of limoncello after your meal? It’s not extremely common in the U.S. to find this little courtesy, but travel almost anywhere in southern Italy, and more often than not you’ll be offered an ice-cold glass of (typically) house made limoncello. Limoncello is a (usually) sweet, (usually) strong liqueur made from 
lemons. It can pack quite a wallop, which is why it’s traditionally served in a small glass (often a shot glass). Especially in hot climates, it’s a nice cool refreshing way to end a meal. Paula and I love to visit Italy, and we’ve had some great limoncello over the years. A few years ago, I got obsessed with learning how to make limoncello. Unlike granita, making limoncello is not a quick process – it takes several months (or more), depending on your recipe. The process can be a bit time consuming, but it’s not that difficult, and you don’t need specialized equipment. Essentially limoncello is a combination of lemon infused alcohol with a simple syrup. Rather than give you a single recipe for limoncello, I’m going to outline the general methodology, along with my tips. I have found that there is no one ‘right’ way to make limoncello – and you can tailor it to your particular tastes. Paula and I don’t like extremely sweet things – so I generally use a lower ratio of sugar to water in my simple syrup. In addition, we don’t want it too strong, so I blend a little more syrup to alcohol to make a slightly less alcoholic ratio than many recipes I’ve found. Finally, we both like a little more tartness – so I add back in some lemon juice to my mixture, to give 
it a bit of acid. If you are one of those people (Jim – I know you are out there!) who absolutely has to have a recipe, this site (Limoncelloquest) has a good basic recipe. Limoncello can be made with almost any citrus fruit – lemons, oranges, mandarins, grapefruit. There is even a chocolate version (I’m not a big fan, and I’m not sure how it’s made – but I’ve seen it in Italy). Now, I will warn you that making limoncello (and especially, experimenting with limoncello) will require some math. It’s important to get the proper ratios for both the simple syrup (sugar to water ratio) and the alcohol content of the lemon infusion. Thankfully, this guy has put together a couple of handy limoncello calculators for you (yes, they exist).
So, let’s start with ingredients. Pretty simple – alcohol, sugar, water, citrus zest, citrus juice. First the alcohol. In Italy, you would use a basic grain alcohol – what is generally sold in the U.S. is under the brand Everclear. It’s typically 
sold at 150 or 190 proof. The problem is that it isn’t sold in every state – for example, New York, where I live. You’re going to dilute it in any case, but you need at least 120 proof alcohol to properly extract the lemon flavor from the zest. Because I can’t get Everclear, I use Vodka – not an expensive brand – you really don’t want any other flavor, just cheap alcohol that is at least 120 proof. To get the right alcohol content of my finished product without overdiluting it, I like to start with 120 proof. I want to end up with about 26% alcohol (52 proof) – but most limoncello recipes give you a product that is more alcoholic – around 60 proof. That’s where the limoncello calculator comes in handy – you punch in the amount of alcohol you are using; the alcohol content of the alcohol; and the alcohol content that you are looking for in your limoncello, and it will spit out the amount of simple syrup needed. So, I end up buying a couple of different vodkas (one at 151 proof, one at 80 proof) and blend it down to 120 proof (yes, you need math, but it’s a rather simple ratio to calculate). Be warned – too much below 52 proof, and your limoncello will freeze (or get slushy) in the freezer.
Next the lemons. You need Meyer lemons…no, not really. Any lemons will work but avoid any lemons that have been waxed. Since I’m using the zest, I generally spring for the organic lemons. So how many? Well, that’s going to 
vary widely by the recipe. It’s anywhere from 12 – 20 lemons for every 1.5 L of 120 proof alcohol. I tend to use more because I like a bit more intense flavor. This is something that you’ll need to experiment with. You need to zest all these lemons – and for that you’ll want a large microplane zester. Be careful not to bite too deeply when you are zesting – you don’t want any of the white part of the peel, otherwise you’ll get bitter limoncello – not good. Zesting this many lemons will take you some time, so be prepared. You’ll also want to think of another use for all those lemons – you’ll only be using the zest at this stage, and since you won’t need the juice for several months, you won’t be using these zestless lemons in your limoncello. I usually use these leftover lemons to make granita, or lemonade.
Once you have the 120 proof blended alcohol, and the zest, you combine them in one or two large, glass jars with a screw top. They really need to be glass. This zest/alcohol mixture is going to sit for 2 months. Yes, that’s right – 2 months. Some people say you need 3-4 months for this extraction period, but I’ve found that after about 2 months, the additional extraction of the lemon oils/essence is so small it’s not worth the additional time. These can sit on your countertop at room temperature. You’ll want to shake up the jars every day or two as the zest will settle to the bottom. The lemon essence will slowly leach from the zest into the alcohol, and you’ll see the transformation over time – the alcohol turning yellow, the zest turning pale/white.
So, you’ve waited 2 months – now comes filtering – the messiest, most time-
consuming part of the process. This is an important step – you really need to get all that zest out, along with other fine particles. I start with scooping out the zest with a large slotted spoon, making sure to squeeze it over the jar. Discard the spent zest – it will be dry and white by this point. Next, I use cheesecloth – lining a colander with cheesecloth suspended over a large bowl, I pour the alcohol mixture through the cheesecloth (I typically have 3-4 layers of cheesecloth. I do two passes with the cheesecloth. Finally, I use coffee filters – regular coffee filters. For this I use a kitchen strainer with a regular coffee filter inside. Don’t be tempted to use your Mr. Coffee pot – you will pick up some stale coffee flavors and ruin your limoncello. The coffee filters are the hardest part – you will want to do two passes, changing coffee filters in between. It will be slow going – the coffee filters will drain quite slowly. Sometimes they will bind up and you have to change the filter more than once. It’s a necessary task. You will end up with an extremely clear, yellow liquid. If you see anything floating – back to the filtration step.
The rest is easy. You measure how much lemon infused liquid you now have (because you will lose alcohol through the process). Using the limoncello calculator, you’ll calculate how much simple syrup you’ll need. Simple syrup is 
easy – combine sugar and water (again, this ratio will depend on how sweet you want it – if you like sweeter limoncello, go with 1-part sugar to 1.5 parts water…if you like it less sweet, like us, then use 1-part sugar to 2 parts water), bring to a boil to dissolve the sugar, then allow to cool to room temperature. Once you have your simple syrup, you just combine the simple syrup with the lemon infused alcohol in the amounts from your limoncello calculator, and voila…limoncello. You’ll notice the mixture getting going from very clear to slightly opaque (almost milky) – when that happens, you’ll know you’ve done it right. The other thing I do is to replace a little bit of the simple syrup quantity with filtered lemon juice (perhaps 10% of the simple syrup – so if you have need 5 cups of simple syrup, use 4.5 cups of simple syrup and 0.5 cups lemon juice) to give it a little tartness.
Now you just bottle it up. We like to use small swing top bottles and give them out as gifts. Store the limoncello in the freezer – anything above 52 proof should stay liquid in the freezer.
So that’s all there is to it. By the way, after trying this with many different citrus fruits, I found that grapefruit produces the best limoncello (well, technically it’s called pompelmocello if you use grapefruit).
Preserved Lemons
Last Easter weekend, we were invited to a friend’s house in Westchester for the weekend. His girlfriend had spent some time in Morocco and made us a fantastic Moroccan dinner that night. One of the ingredients was preserved lemon – in this case it was present in a delicious chicken tagine with olives and preserved lemons. We talked about our love of lemons, and how versatile 
preserved lemons are – and she told us how easy it was to make preserved lemons at home. We returned to the city, and I had a new mission – to make preserved lemons! Preserved lemons are nothing more than salt cured lemons. Again, these aren’t going to be quick, like the granita. They take a minimum of 1 month, and unlike the limoncello, they do improve with age – so the longer they ferment, the better. I’m going to make this one quick, and once again not provide a recipe. You can google preserved lemon recipes and you’ll get hundreds! They are all basically the same (I’ll outline the process here but use a recipe to get the correct amount of salt). You’ll take lemons, 
and cut them in quarters or fifths, not quite cutting all the way through (so they open up, a little like a flower). You will open up the lemons slightly, and pack salt between the attached wedges, as well as rub the outsides of the lemons. Let these sit in the refrigerator overnight (disclaimer – you’ll note that I do all the steps for the preserved lemons in the refrigerator – many recipes will tell you this isn’t necessary, that you can ferment and store the lemons at room temp – but out of an abundance of caution, I use the fridge). The next day they will have exuded a lot of juice. Pack them in sterilized canning 
jars and pour the juice over them – they should be covered in juice, but if not, add additional juice to make sure they are covered. Store them in the fridge for a month (or longer), giving the jar a shake every couple of days or so. To use, take out a lemon – pull off one of the 
wedges – discard the pulp (you only use the peel) and give it a good rinse. There are tons of uses for these – chop them up, toss them in some pasta with good olive oil, and you have a meal. Use them in stews. They will give a salty, tart, intense lemony flavor to your food. They keep forever – I suspect you’ll end up using them up before they go bad.
So, there you have it. A little peek into the mind of the urban dilletante. I know I frustrate Paula sometimes with all my little pursuits – when I get on a subject, I tend to get obsessed with it, but once completed, I’m on to the next thing. But I have an intense curiosity about the world, and I get really excited about trying new things; especially things that I can create myself. So, the next time you see somebody making something – whether it’s food; or a craft; or art; or whatever – and you tell yourself “Oh, I wish I could do that” – don’t wish…try it. What’s the worst that could happen?!!
have a Chantenay carrot from two different farms, they will each have slight differences in flavor, reflecting all the specific growing conditions of each farm – type of soil, how often they are watered, type of nutrients, when they were harvested, etc. – even though they may be identical varieties of carrot. Will the differences in flavor be distinct? Probably not. For most foods, these differences are going to be subtle. But we live in a world where terroir is increasingly valued and celebrated. That’s why you see so much focus on highlighting terroir on menus these days – for example, these aren’t just any tomatoes in the salad, these are “Eckerton Hill Farms Heirloom tomatoes”. Yes, sometimes it gets a bit annoying with these lengthy menu descriptions. But with
oysters, almost more so than any other food, you really taste…distinctly…their terroir (well, I guess technically it’s their “merroir”). That’s what makes them so interesting and joyful for me – the ability to distinctly taste, in a single bite, the tiny part of the ocean that this little guy came from.
While once the food of the common man, oysters today are, unfortunately, a bit of a luxury item. Go into any oyster or raw bar today, and you’ll likely see a chalk board or daily menu with anywhere from a few selections to as many as 15 or more selections of oysters. Malpeques, Wellfleets, Bagaduces, Duxburys, Bluepoints, Kusshis, Beau Soleils. Some of the 
names are intriguing – Lady Chatterly, or Fanny Bay (my British friends will love that one! Andy, Paddy, Chris!). It leads people to believe that there are hundreds of species of oysters out there – but amazingly enough, there are really only five food oyster species (Kumamoto; Pacific; Eastern; European Flats; and Olympia), and one – the Eastern Oyster, or Crassostrea virginica – makes up 85% of oyster consumption in the US. Take a look at the menu from the 
Coast oysters. Every one of those oysters is Crassostrea virginica, and every one not only looks different, but tastes different. The same characteristics apply to Pacific Oysters; European Oysters; etc. While the species may be the same, the shape, size, shell color, oyster texture and oyster flavor are going to be distinctly different depending on a dizzying number of variables associated with where the oyster was grown, and when it was harvested. In the US, most raw oysters offered are either East Coast, or Pacific (also called West Coast). Occasionally, Belons (European Flats) are offered, but these are almost always harvested from Maine, where Belons were transplanted from Europe in the 1950’s. While there are many flavor and texture variations, there are some generalizations about their physical characteristics and flavor profiles (I love that phrase!) – Pacific oysters are typically smaller, rounder, deeper, creamier, sweeter, with hints of melon or cucumber; while East Coast oysters tend to be larger, narrower, briny, crisp, with a slight mineral accent. 
In this picture, the Pacific oysters are in the middle -see how they look different? These are wide generalizations, of course – there is significant overlap. I will admit that I am an East Coast oyster lover– it’s not that I dislike Pacific Oysters – but I prefer the briny flavor of Eastern oysters to the (for me) slightly off-putting melony favor of West Coast. But aside from those generalizations, the variation is astounding. For example, on the other side of the Boothbay Peninsula from us is the Damariscotta River, one of the major oyster growing areas in Maine.
I’ve had the following oysters from the Damariscotta: Pemaquids; Glidden Points; Norumbegas; Wawenauks; Dodge Coves; Otter Coves; Browne Points; and Wiley Points. I’m sure there are even more, but amazingly, these 8 oysters are all grown within a 15 mile stretch of the Damariscotta River – and they all taste distinctly different! It’s the result of all the different variables that go into growing and harvesting the oysters. Salinity; depth of harvesting; depth of finishing; location along the river; current; etc. All these variations combine to produce a unique flavor. We live on the other side of the Peninsula, on the Sheepscot side. There are exactly zero oyster farms on our side, yet we 
are only 4 miles away, and the tidal waters that flow in both rivers is from the exact same source. Given that a significant amount of lobster harvesting occurs just off our dock, I thought it was strange that there were no oyster farms. I contacted Bill Mook, owner of 
So, let’s talk about what I think is the first hurdle that you oyster haters have to get over – eating them raw. This really frightens a lot of people. First, everyone has their story on someone getting sick from eating a raw oyster. Yes, it does happen, and, particularly for high-risk individuals (such as those with compromised immune systems), eating raw oysters may not be advisable because of the potential life-threatening consequences. That said, the general risks of infection in the US are very low, especially if you confine your oyster eating or buying to well known establishments with solid histories. There are risks from consuming many food items, ranging from undercooked meats (e.g. medium rare burgers) to raw eggs, and even unwashed spinach. 
But I don’t think the risks from eating raw oysters are so high that this should stop people from consuming them. While I love cooked oysters as well, to me, they are a completely different product. Steamed oysters dipped in butter are one of my daughter and I’s favourite foods on Hilton Head Island in South Carolina. My wife and I absolutely love New Orleans chargrilled oysters (
are generally flavored up with other things (butter; cheese; Worcester sauce; hot sauce; etc.)
great fish. Do you know what a halibut looks like? Ok, not so scared? How about monkfish? Nice white, mild fish. Take a look – Pretty scary, right? 
swallow? Do you chew? That’s all about preference. I like to take a couple of chews before swallowing – but I promise 
pre-empt it by covering it with something equally (in their mind) strong. The problem, ironically, is that the oyster has such a mild, subtle flavor that anything you put on it can quickly overwhelm the flavors. I notice that people do this with sushi as well. Do you? Come on, admit it if you do. I meet lots of people that say they like sushi. We go to the sushi bar. My first clue is their predominant focus on rolls – keep the fish safely tucked away beneath rice; vegetables; and sauces. Then the horrible habit of mixing a large wad of wasabi in with their soy sauce – so they end up with a sinus busting dipping sauce. The subtle 
flavor of the fish is nowhere to be found. The same can be found with people purporting to love raw oysters – you see them load up on cocktail sauce before slurping down their oyster. Yesterday, at the 
wean yourself down, however. First, let go of the tabasco. Then cut back on the cocktail sauce. Replace the cocktail sauce with a little mignonette. Replace the mignonette with just a splash of lemon. Then finally, one day, eat the oyster naked (well, ehm. I don’t mean eat it in the nude…I mean, do that if you want, but…ehm…never mind). By the way, mignonette is extremely easy to make if, and when, 
you finally decide to buy and shuck your own oysters (more on that in a moment). It’s really just vinegar (typically red or white wine vinegar), a 
location, you can buy these oysters for under $1 per oyster. Still a little pricey, but now within reach for most people to eat them regularly. You buy a dozen, and an oyster knife, get them home, and figure – how hard can this be? I remember getting ambitious on my first time buying oysters to shuck at home – I bought two dozen Blue Points and an oyster knife from my local supermarket. I got them home, washed them, and prepared to shuck. I had watched a couple of youtube videos – didn’t look that hard. An hour and half later I had finished shucking – I was exhausted; the kitchen was a mess; my palm was bleeding from several puncture marks, and the oysters 
were a disaster – little bits of broken shell and mud on almost every one. I began to appreciate the shuckers at the oyster bar – you get a plate of oysters, clean, glistening, no mud, or broken shells – and you realize why you are paying $3 per oyster! When we bought our house in Maine, we started going to a local pub (
such a device – called an 
knife – and I finally “got it”. My problem was in putting too much brute force to try to pop the hinge. It’s much more about technique – wiggle the knife point in, apply very slight pressure, slightly rotate the knife tip, and you will feel it pop open. Once you learn the technique, shucking isn’t so bad. I also learned to buy a shucking glove (knife proof gloves – Amazon prime – under $7 a pair) for protection. I may still use the oyster jack if I have a lot of people over, but with my technique refined, I only need a good oyster knife and a kitchen towel to shuck (almost) like a professional!
do, I think you will be surprised by how much you like them. One of my nephews, Facundo (that’s him on the left), has a very narrow range of food he will eat – beef; pizza; pasta; no veggies. A few years ago we convinced Facundo to actually try an oyster. 
