Hello, FilterGorGoodians. I wish I was writing to you under cheerier circumstances, but, alas, I am not. As you should know by now, I live in New Orleans, and hopefully you’re also aware of the tragedy besetting our delicate coast and wetlands. A couple of weeks ago, a large oil drilling platform exploded in the Gulf of Mexico. It, like hundreds of other platforms, was drilling for oil through the sea floor which in most cases is over a mile below the surface of the water. When the platform exploded, the well began to leak oil into the water. It’s been leaking ever since. This is a post about the oil spill, but it’s also a post about a plate of raw oysters that I ate just before this tragedy, and one I’ll be eating a year from now.

Like many people who live near water, seafood is a staple of my diet. I’m not talking about a square, breaded, fish-like block from your nearest fast food establishment. Nope, the seafood I’m referring to is the kind I know best here in New Orleans. Namely, oysters and crawfish. A few weeks ago, again before the oil spill, I woke up with a hankering for half a dozen raw oysters. Our oysters here are sublime. You can taste the Gulf in them. They have a murky, salty taste, and I mean that in a good way. They’re not salty-salty, just mildly briny. The place I go is about a mile from my house. When you walk in, there’s a guy behind a counter to the right. There’s a guy like him in every oyster joint in South Louisiana.

The oyster man wears a long, black rubber apron. One of his hands is gloved, that’s the hand he uses to hold the oyster. The other hand holds an oyster knife. His knife has a rounded tip, and is incredibly sturdy. He sticks the tip of the knife into the space where the oyster’s top and bottom shells meet. Then, with a grimace, he plunges the knife into the oyster, trying to break its seal. He twists the knife back and forth. His massive arms bulge and flex. Sweat accumulates on his forehead. The ritual seems to last for minutes, but really only a few seconds go by. The oyster puts up a noble fight, but its fate is inevitable. The oyster man lines his prizes up on the counter in front of him. He is very careful not to let their juices (liqueur) spill out.

A waitress stops by with a round, plastic tray. She carefully places 12 oysters on the tray, and brings it to the table. I am sitting at the table. I’ve got a stack of crackers waiting, along with cocktail sauce, some extra horseradish and a few lemon wedges. I take a cracker, and place a dripping oyster on top. I squeeze a little lemon juice on top, and then plop a nice dollop of the cocktail sauce. I dip a single prong of my fork into the horseradish, and dot on a few white specks. Then, I eat it.

Now, to some this may sound disgusting, and others may find it cruel. Although my wife and I are work-day vegans, we are good foodies. We just don’t like good food, but we respect it. I respect the oysters that I eat. They serve a purpose and are precious to me.

This is New Orleans to me. I would have never eaten a raw oyster before I moved here. Now, I can’t live without them. Imagine if someone had told me that last time I was eating those oysters was going to be the last time I would eat oysters this year, or ever. My heart breaks just thinking about it, but it’s not my meal I’m crying over. These oysters represent an eco-system and way of life that is delicate and significant and important. Thousands of people will lose their jobs because of this. Millions of animals will lose their lives because of this.

It’s important that you know what’s going on, and that you try to help any way you can. We are desperately seeking ways to help. I hope to bring you updates on the positive progress that is made. Even if you can’t wrap your head around the severity and scope of this disaster, just remember the oyster and the ripples that have been created.