We spread and scrutinize the clams on our beach-pebbled patio designed and built by my dad .  Then we segregate and group each by size.  The clams bathe for two days in cornmeal and water in stockpots outside on our patio. They cleanse and purify themselves in this manner.  They open up their shells and suck in or “inhale” the clean water and cornmeal.  They discharge impurities as they “exhale.”

After separating all the clams, I take a nice warm bubble bath with my pink box of Mr. Bubbles soap flakes and reminisce about our adventure and our loot.  I adore fragrances even as a youngster and I splash on some light and citrusy Jean Nate toilet water.   Later that night, I join my family and sit around the old brick red picnic table with attached benches.  Our crimson brick barbeque stands proudly in the right hand corner of our pebbled patio.  My dad built the barbeque too.  He can build, manufacture or fix anything.  He taught me how to build fires on the beach without using  lighter fluid or gas.  I have handed down my pyrotechnic skills to my daughter, V, named after my dad.

The tastiest, most delicious and scrumptious clams are the one-inchers.  They are miniscule bites of delight.  We always eat the petite appetizers the very same night we bring them home.  The pygmy clams perch precariously on the grill over the fire my dad has started.  Each tiny mollusk gives up its life in its own time, at its own pace.  My dad stands watch so he can pick them up with his tongs at the peak of their flavor, the moment of their final surrender.  He proudly and carefully brings them to us one by one, without spilling any clam liquor, to our table.

I squeeze a little lemon into the bottom casing full of tepid seawater.   Alive just a few seconds ago, my savory amuse bouche awaits its destiny.  My victim lays steeped in tart ocean juice.  I dig the rubbery meat out with my fingers.  I detach its muscle from its plum – colored home.  I place it in my puckered mouth. I swallow it whole as I chase it down with the salty, lemony broth.  I slurp with a slight intake of air and it slides down my throat, smoothly, quickly and completely.

I relish and wonder in awe at the magical and vivid moments of a great summer day.  It is great to be alive!  It feels “oh so good ” as well as honest and satisfying to dine on gifts from the sea I toiled hard to unearth from the sea floor and brought up from the bottom of a clam bed.   I feel safe and secure on our beach-pebbled patio.  I do not take for granted the delicacy and pure exquisiteness of newly opened Little Neck clams and this moment in time. I grasp and hold close to my heart, the holiness of the event.

Possibly from the lessons I learned as a child, I value, respect, cherish, and find it sacred to eat fresh caught, fresh picked, freshly prepared or freshly harvested food.   It is a blessing to obtain, make ready and serve nourishing (preferably organic) meals with tender, loving care.

May you dine on simple, true flavors layered by time, shared with others and realize the moment as a gift.

Now, defenseless without my sneakers,  I clamp my toes (it is more intuitive barefoot anyway) around what I believe to be a huge mollusk.  I reach down with both my hands into the salty liquid and I bend my right knee, raise my foot towards the surface, releasing my toe grip on an enormous clam as I place it securely, deftly into my left hand and lift up a beauty of a clam.  I shake it up and down, I spring out of the water about a foot high and exclaim loudly, “Mira, Pa, mira que grande!” (Look, Dad, look how big it is!)  It seems humongous in my childish grip.

My dad looks over from around fifteen feet away to my right, in much deeper water, further out from the rocky shore and calls back, “Oh, ese lo vamos a usar en una linda sopa.” (Oh, that one we will use in a nice soup.)

“Yes,” I ponder proudly, “it will make a good addition to a scrumptious fresh clam chowder!”  I know my mom will add homegrown veggies from our summer garden to the meal and I start to salivate just imagining it.   I find and retrieve yet another clam without letting it drop back into the sea and escaping my hold on it.

I enjoy the entire event – the ever diving down, reaching and clutching with my toes, the dance of lifting and grabbing the mollusks from my foot, to hand, to basket, and the time spent with my dad.   The satisfaction of spending quality time with my father (in a natural setting to boot) infuses my soul.  I also rather enjoy the feasting afterwards and with a comfortable, slow smile on my face follow the thought of how much I take after him and how much we belong to each other. There is no way I was adopted, though sometimes you wonder when you are young, because I instantly know in that moment, we are too alike and are having way too much fun hunting and gathering and being productive.

My dad takes pride in my clam-digging skills.  I fashion myself as a worthy ten-year-old sidekick.  My only drawback,  is  I want to keep everything and I question, haggle and repeatedly ask, -“Is this clam too miniature or illegal?” and  ” Are you sure I have to put it back?”  Clamming for a few summers now,  I feel confident in my dexterity, skills and ability.  I toss the mollusks left and right into the makeshift tire-tube basket that floats and dances between us under the scorching sun.

Every clam has a destination after the harvest.  A super large Little Neck clam resembles and weighs as much as a hefty rock! Chopped up gigantic four to five inch “Little” neck clams are relegated to my mom’s tasty and well-seasoned version of  clam chowder.  She bakes the medium -sized clams right in their own deep purple and pearl Quahog shells with homemade Italian breadcrumbs, parsley, garlic and butter. The bivalves are served in their own homes, a spot of pure genius and ingenuity.  These savory sea morsels are best right out of the oven and devoured while still blazing hot.   The Iroquois Indians of Long Island valued the beautiful violet interiors as currency.  The darker and larger the purple stain, the pricier the clam shell was worth.

Tune in tomorrow for the final description of clam digging and eating.

“No, no sirve, hija – es muy chiquito – dejalo que crezca.  Tíralo de vuelta en el agua, no lo metas en la canasta, Cecilia” (No, it’s no good, daughter – it’s too little – let it grow.  Throw it back into the water; do not put it in the basket, Cecilia).

‘Argh,’ I think.  Bitten by a crab for a teeny, tiny clam I have to throw back into the water. Really?  Oh well, back it goes.  I restore this creature to the depths of the murky inlet of Little Africa Beach into the depths of the Long Island Sound.

The summer sun warms the muddy water and drenches me in heat.   I kick the dark sandy sediment at the bottom of the sea upwards using my toes as I feel around for clams. Seagulls squawk and dive down over my head.  Their constant swooping and chatter, a backdrop to the lapping of shallow waves.  The distinctive scent of the sea permeates my nostrils and hangs heavy in the hot, humid air. The brine tastes sweet, it’s familiar taste pleasant and a comfort, as I smack my lips. It is a flavor particular to the Long Island Sound, back east, in New York.

My dad says it is unlawful to keep the miniature little neck clams and I reluctantly return them to the tepid summer water.  I look forward to them thriving, developing and multiplying because next season I will eagerly scoop and hold them up high like a prize won for patience, endurance and expertise.

The best way I know how to dig for clams is to touch and dig into the earth under the seawater as I tread and hop. I feel the terrain with my toes and grab what I think might be a clam between the ball of my feet and toes, clinching tightly around my catch …then I swing my clenched foot up to my opposite hip and reach down with either hand.  As I bring it to light for the very first time in its life out into the air and sunshine, I inspect my treasure.

Sometimes, my find emerges out of the water and it’s just a sharp- edged rock and I am severely disappointed.  On most occasions though, I discover a solid, pearly, round Little Neck clam, native to the Northeastern seaboard.  I bob up and down as I trudge the floor of the Sound searching for hours, repeating the scenario.  Occasionally, a crab grabs my toes and nips.  Sometimes, I even draw blood.

“Ouch!,” I exclaim.

Crabby crustacean biting occurs frequently in the month of August.  It is a good time to stick some old Converse or cheap department store sneakers on my feet to go clamming safely.

Today, I realize a little too late, is the last day of July and I left my shoes outside on the kitchen stoop leading to our patio. After my café con leche (coffee with milk) in the morning, I didn’t want to miss a single minute of daylight or time with my dad so I hightailed it out quickly to the driveway.

My dad waits with our gear in our old white-finned car. I live in bathing suits in the summer adding perhaps a pair of culottes and maybe a top. I dress in beach-prepared style all summer long.    However, I forget my protective sneakers today and I pay with some abrasions and crab inflicted wounds.

Tune in tomorrow for further clam digging drama…

Upstairs, I hear The Man of La Mancha album playing, my dad singing The Impossible Dream loudly, alongside Richard Kiley.  The song resonates with passionate lyrics and musical drama.  There is a grief and depth to its poetry that is akin to The Music of the Night sung by Michael Crawford in The Phantom of the Opera.  It makes me weep with its beauty and inconsolable sadness interpreted between the lines.

I watch as my Abuela places a large quantity of flour in the middle of the table, making a deep volcanic well wherein she expertly cracks three, whole, raw eggs into the core.  Slowly, from the sides of the heaped semolina floured hill, she cups the white dust into her hands.  She scatters the powder into the crater of yellow, jellied mounds. Gently, she incorporates the flour into the eggs, employing powerful and experienced forearms, wrists and hands. Dough is formed.

It was a messy yet magical process.  Unable to resist, I eagerly participated when my Abuela allowed me to.  Although it looked like fun – it proved to be an assignment for robust, skilled and mighty sinew.

Abuela divides the mother dough into an even amount of sections and rolls each glob into smaller round baby balls of satiny dough.  With a rolling pin, she flattens each on a lightly floured section of the table and then turns them clockwise. She irons out the wrinkles, continues turning and flattening all the way back up to twelve o’clock, then flips the pasta sheets over, like you rotate and spin a mattress.  Dribbling flour overhead like snow softly falling, she brushes her fingers over the smooth surface enlarging it further with her rolling pin, using the same process over and over until it’s the consistency and color of creamy muslin, the delicateness of a baby’s powdered bottom and the thickness and texture of velvet cloth.

The record player needle drops and the diamond point hisses as it swishes back and forth until it catches the groove and the LP album of West Side Story begins to play, starting with the overture.

“Según  cuanta humedad haya es la harina que vas a necesitar,” (The quantity of flour is determined by the amount of humidity that you have) she explained simply.  “Tenes que tener cuidado porque si agregras demasiado, la pasta se endurecerá” (You have to be careful, because if you add too much, the noodles will be too chewy).

There was affection and memory in her work and conversation as she persevered past each stage of alchemic transformation, regaling me with tidbits of information and technical details enshrined in historical family customs.

She deftly spreads teensy amounts of flour onto the elongated flat sheets.  Abuela drizzles in flour, waving her hands, she sands, brushes, and sweeps as flour particles disperse with the bottom palm of her four fingers, side to side, up and down so that the pasta sheet is pampered with tenderness, thoroughness and attention.

I hear “I like to be in America, everything free in America” upstairs and mimic the heavy Latina accent and dance up a storm around my Abuela.  She laughs and roars with glee, completely enjoying my antics.  The scent of sauce fills the house. With every breath, I inhale tomatoes, onions, garlic, oregano and bay leaves into my lungs. I cannot wait to enjoy the fruits of our labor!