I’m a meat eater. I don’t discriminate against certain types of meat either. I’m an equal opportunity consumer of all protein. So when I got a chance this weekend to try my hand at clam digging, I said HELL’S YES and dug in with visions of a clam dinner in my future.When it comes to hunting for my own dinner the most I’d tried my hand at so far had been fishing. I’ve been many, many times in my past, usually without any actual luck. As Adam likes to pipe in when I’m feeling especially frustrated, “It’s called fishing, not catching Ashley.” And each time I hear that phrase, it takes all my will power to restrain myself from using Adam’s big toe as my bait.
I assumed clamming would be as equally frustrating as fishing. I mean, think about it. Miles of low tide sand that ALL LOOKS ALIKE. I assumed it would be impossible to figure out where the tiny little clams live in all that sand. At least as equally hard as trying to hook a little fish in tons of dark deep water. But no worries kids because turns out it’s not only easy to find those little clammies, but I have super clam skills! I found clams with a flick of the rake, with my bare hands, and I even found a few with my feet. It was so fun even Oly got in on the action and found a clam. You’d assume that clamming can’t be that hard if the dog can snag one. But it turns out Adam isn’t as talented at clam detection as the ladies in this household. We mostly brought home the dinner, and Adam became our bucket bitch. In the end I like to think of his clam inadequacy as payback for all those damn “fishing not catching” comments.
Oly’s first clam!