While in Maine, Tim decides that after years of shellfish drought (although no longer kosher, I still can’t bring myself to eat the stuff) he was going to take me to lobster pounds for all of our evening meals. (He even samples lobster ice cream at a local confectionary. The verdict: “Tastes like vanilla,” which, I guess, is the chicken of the dessert world.) I can’t even bring myself to try a bite of the hideous crustacean. It’s no longer so much a religious thing; I just can’t understand the appeal of having my dinner stare at me while I dismember it. With all that pounding, no wonder I always have a haddock. Oy.