Commentary: The lawyer and the lobster

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We now have finished the most unprecedented and unusual holiday season in most of our lifetimes. It was difficult in many ways, for many reasons. Most of us spent the holidays alone, or at least with a smaller-than-typical crowd. As of the time of this writing, thousands of Americans are dying every day from COVID-19, this heinous illness. For many of us — myself included —that meant an empty chair at the table this year. The typical markers of the holiday season — joy, merriment and gratitude — were in short supply for millions around the world.

Despite the difficult aspects of this holiday season, my wife, Laura, and I were able to find unique ways to celebrate that, in some ways, were more meaningful than a typical year. We had countless video calls with friends and family — from Missouri to Wisconsin, Delaware to New York, California to Texas. Several of our friends and family gifted thoughtful presents, including gift cards to local (struggling) restaurants and donations to frontline workers and organizations that are helping folks who are experiencing homelessness and hunger. We also are receiving thoughtful baby gifts — a result of our Zoom-based baby shower — reminding us of yet another thing for which to be grateful this season.

My father-in-law, a true lover of Christmas and a notorious gift-giver, deluged us with presents. Nearly every morning for what felt like weeks, our front porch was filled with nondescript packages and Amazon deliveries. I feared our Ring doorbell, which notifies us of movement on the porch, was going to break from overuse. I learned the names of the UPS and FedEx drivers. Our neighbors started to think we were running some kind of nefarious scheme. My wife, who inherited a love for Christmas from her family, dutifully wrapped every single one and placed them under our scraggly Christmas tree.

One gift, though, caused considerable consternation in my household. It came without warning on an unusually warm Saturday morning during the weekend before Christmas. Laura received the Ring notification and sighed at the thought of another gift. Upon opening the door, she shrieked and yelled for me to come running. I was on the phone with a client, but I told him that I’d need to call him back, as it sounded like my wife was being abducted (perhaps she was running a nefarious scheme after all). I ran to the door to find her, mouth agape, looking down at a box on the porch. The large package bore a photo of a pair of lobsters on the top, and in bold, capital lettering the notation “LIVE LOBSTERS.” I was mortified.

As background, my wife and I adopted a piscatorial diet — i.e., no meat except seafood — a few years ago. The decision was hers, and it stemmed from a documentary that she watched after I had suggested that one of our New Year’s resolutions involve watching more educational programming — a suggestion I hastily made on the tail end of another “The Bachelor” binge-watching session. I immediately regretted that resolution, and I have resolved to never again make another one.

This year, my father-in-law told us that he wanted to send us a pescatarian-friendly meal that we could cook on Christmas. Never, however, did he mention that he’d be sending live animals to us. Laura and I studied the box carefully. The first thought I had was that the lobsters must be dead — it was 60 degrees, and the package didn’t feel cold. I was, I thought, a potential witness to a mass lobster execution. I wondered aloud whether we could be prosecuted for animal cruelty or illegal transport of crustaceans across state lines. I fretted about the hypocrisy of my recent donation to the ASPCA. My mind next turned to best practices for burying a lobster. Perhaps I could lay them to rest in the backyard with some boiled potatoes and some Old Bay seasoning, with Billy Joel’s “The Downeaster ‘Alexa’” playing in the background. I thought that would be a tasteful — or at least tasty — service.

Upon further thought, we figured that the Maine-based lobster purveyor probably had figured out how to ship to warm climates, so we likely didn’t have a box of dead lobsters on our porch. I slowly picked up the box — hoping not to wake them from their slumber — and carried the box into our kitchen for further study. Once the panic had subsided, we Googled how to store live lobsters. We learned that the best practice is to refrigerate the lobsters and consume them as soon as possible. I cleared a spot in the refrigerator and carefully lifted the parcel. I almost dropped it when I felt a movement inside, which resulted in a loud gasp from Laura. I recited a phrase from the children’s bedtime story, “Goodnight Moon,” and wished them a restful sleep.

Now that the lobsters were resting soundly in my fridge, I began to wonder if I was in the possession of illegal contraband. It was hard to believe that it was legal to ship live animals to an unsuspecting household, particularly one with no idea of how to store, assassinate and then cook the cross-country travelers. I found myself down a wormhole of researching obscure laws relating to catching, shipping and storing live crustaceans. For instance, I learned that the state of Maine has a highly detailed regulatory scheme applicable to edible marine decapod crustaceans of the family Nephropidae (i.e., lobsters). There are very specific rules for obtaining and maintaining a lobster-harvesting license (e.g., must be a resident of Maine), permitted fishing methods (must use conventional lobster traps from a vessel but not a dock) and permitted fishing seasons (it is unlawful to haul lobster gear from a half-hour after sunset until a half-hour before sunrise between June 1 and Oct. 31). Being trained in my large law firm to always consult with applicable specialists, I called a maritime lawyer-friend with additional questions. Although he had no experience in what I referred to as “lobster laws,” he did give me a recipe for “divine” lemon and herb-butter sauce to accompany lobster tails.

Next, we turned to YouTube to figure out how to kill a lobster and dismember it for cooking. The results were not pretty. Apparently, the most “humane” way to kill a lobster is to take a large chef’s knife, place the tip at the base of the lobster’s head, and quickly and violently plunge it directly down the center of the unsuspecting shellfish’s skull. The videos were gruesome, but I felt it would be my duty to quickly and painlessly put these lobsters out of their misery, particularly because I had checked with the local “no-kill” animal shelter and they already had their quota of live lobsters (which was none). I watched more than two hours of videos until I felt confident that I could deftly handle the execution at hand. Due to YouTube’s sophisticated algorithm, my “recommended videos” section is now exclusively animal-slaughter clips.

I yelled to Laura and told her that I was ready. We prepped the execution table (i.e., we wiped off our Williams Sonoma wooden cutting board), and I donned my chef’s apron. I sharpened the guillotine (i.e., my J.A. Henckels 8-inch knife), removed the box from the refrigerator and placed it on our kitchen island. I slowly opened the box.

While Laura nervously hovered, I carefully removed the Styrofoam housing and jumped back, allowing Laura the first glimpse. She burst out laughing. As it turned out, we were in possession of dead lobsters, though the deed had likely been done 2,000 miles away in Maine. All that was left were frozen lobster tails and pre-packaged ingredients to make a lobster roll. The company inadvertently (or perhaps as some kind of sick joke) had packed the lobster roll kit in a box designed for live lobsters.

That was about that time that Laura’s phone rang. It was her father calling to see whether we had received the “gift.” We regaled him with the tale of our traumatic day. Her father (a vascular surgeon) empathized with our plight, noting that he could never take a knife to another living thing — except, of course, a human with varicose veins.