I’ve never met an oyster that I didn’t like. Raw, chargrilled, fried, Rockefeller, Ainsworth . . . however you want to cook (or not cook) them, I’m game. On our recent trip to New Orleans, we were determined to eat our way around the city, and we dutifully worked our way through our list of must-eats. More specifically, for my mom and I, we were set on sampling as many types of oysters as we could. Abby was our resident food photographer. They were all yummy.

But, as we ate our way through the city, I recalled a time I did meet an oyster I didn’t like. My friend Steve was my partner in crime throughout college and at various times, we embarked on hair-brained trips from snow-camping to waterfall climbing, and one of our trips found us canoeing in the Everglades. We rented a canoe, bucketed our gear (protection against raccoons) and headed out into the area known as Ten Thousand Islands. As over-confident kids in our early twenties, we also had a streak of self-sufficiency and wild adventure that lived in us and we decided that one of our goals was to harvest our own meal. You probably see where this is going. We could have brought fishing poles and cooked up some fresh fish over an evening fire. That would have been the smart thing to do. Nope, we decided to harvest oysters. In the Everglades. I vaguely remember them being pretty tasty. I think we cooked them up in some pasta or something like that. We were smart enough not to eat them raw.

Needless to say, they didn’t agree with us. Fortunately, I think we ate the oysters on our last night out in the wilderness. On the ride home from Everglades City to Seffner, I’m pretty sure we stopped at every rest area.

But, without risk or some trouble, there is no adventure. I’ve learned from my younger years. I’ll let others harvest and prepare oysters for me, and as New Orleans learned on our visit, I will always be there to try them.