A lot of folks, no matter the age, can hardly wait for hunting season to begin, Christmas to arrive or have a visit from the tooth fairy.
But others suffer like a child waiting for Santa as oyster season approaches.
It is finally here! Whooooopie! Bring ‘em on!
The months ending with “ber” are known as the peak months for oyster lovers.
That is when they get fat, juicy and salty.
There are only two ways to categorize the awful looking little critter — either you love them or hate them.
Real oyster eaters like them anyway — fried, steamed or raw.
Sure, they are not much to look at, but there is no better eating to come out of salt water. The best way is to sit down with a bushel of fresh oysters, an oyster knife, a box of Zesta crackers, salt and pepper, and a spicy sauce mixture of a little Texas Pete, horseradish and ketchup.
It doesn’t get any better.
In another time, I lived at the beach and got a bushel every Friday afternoon during the season.
We all sat around the kitchen table with a platter of oysters in the shell and shucked them as we wolfed them down.
Add a good salt-rimmed margarita and for a lot of folks that is probably as close to Heaven as they’ll ever get.
I finally got tired of not getting enough and quit sharing on Friday nights.
Seems I was the only one sharing as everyone was eating.
A bushel many years ago cost $10, and that seemed like a lot back then.
But, I cut a deal with the guy supplying the oysters — I would buy a bushel every single Friday for the entire season if he were willing to play a nine-ball billiards game for double or nothing.
I knew he loved to play pool and had seen him play. I also knew he couldn’t beat me.
We played a race to 11 and I won.
He kept his word and delivered the oysters to my backdoor step every Friday.
They sure were good and tasted even better because they were free.
Later, he asked to give him a chance to get some of his money back.
He wanted to play the same game for $100.
It was a lot of money, but I was confident.
Confidence in one’s self is always something good to have, but it didn’t help me that night.
In the end, both of us were winners.
William Holloman is a staff writer for the Mount Olive Tribune. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.