One night back in the 1960s, while my dad was in Vietnam, and Mom, my sister, and I were living with my grandparents in their motel in New Jersey, my grandmother cooked a delicious seafood dinner. It was one meal out of all the meals of my lifetime, but I will never forget it. It is memorable for the awesomeness of the menu, for the excitement of that day, and most importantly for my own childish stupidity.

That day started like any other. Mom, my sister, and I woke up in room 14 of the Sea Lure Motel, the room which had originally been my grandparents' efficiency apartment before the construction of the new wing of the building. We took our turns in the bathroom, dressed, and went downstairs to my grandparents' new five-room apartment for a breakfast of danish. The conversation would have been about the races at the Atlantic City Race Track. You see, every evening at dinner we all picked a horse and put a quarter in a margarine tub. The next morning, we checked for winners. It was a major source of excitement for all of us.

After breakfast, we all loaded up in Grandmom's car for a trip to Cape May to buy fresh lobsters. I don't know why we always went down there. It was at least forty-five minutes away, but just the same, it was our destination for lobsters whenever we had them.

On the way back to the motel, we stopped somewhere in Somers Point to buy fresh clams in a burlap bag at a little shack near the bay. Once again, that was our usual destination for clams. I remember how Grandpop always bought a bunch of regular clams and a dozen smaller ones. I don't remember the names. I just know that the smaller ones were Grandmom's favorite, and he bought them just for her.

Back at the motel, food preparations began. Grandpop went to the old kitchen behind the office and opened the clams. I stood beside him eating some as soon as he opened them. I loved the delicious taste of fresh clams on the halfshell. The others he took completely out of their shells and dropped into a bowl. Grandmom was going to make her famous white clam sauce, something I had never had until that day.

When the clams were ready, I carried the bowl to Grandmom in the new kitchen while Grandpop started working with the lobsters. They weren't going to be boiled that day. Grandpop carefully killed them with a nail and hammer before cleaning them and removing the lobster tail meat. Then they, like the clams were passed on to Grandmom.

From this point on, I can only give vague descriptions of what took place in the new kitchen. Children were not allowed to step one foot through the door when the ladies were cooking. You either made yourself scarce, or suffered the punishment of major chores or banishment to room 14. All I do know for sure, based on the meal itself, is that Grandmom made a stuffing for the lobsters that had fresh crabmeat from our most recent crabbing expedition in it. She laid the lobsters on cookie sheets, stuffed the crab mixture into the empty tails, placed the tail meat on top, drizzled garlic butter all over, and baked them in the oven. None of my living relatives can tell me what Grandmom called this. They all say stuffed lobster or Lobster Imperial, when I ask. I have a fuzzy memory of there being some other name that Grandmom had made up. I just can't pull it out. They are all probably right, anyway, since it was basically Lobster Imperial.

Okay, now to the stupidity mentioned in the title. That involved Grandmom's famous white clam sauce. You see, when it was cooking, all I could smell was urine. I am absolutely serious. To my young nose, it smelled like everyone had peed in the pot, thrown some clams in, and put it on the stove. When I broke the rules and braved a step in the kitchen to ask what was in it, I was told, "It's a secret! Get out of here!" To my mind, that confirmed my fears. Yes, I know how stupid that was, but it doesn't change the fact that little Jimmie was convinced his grandmother was cooking a pot of clams and piss!

At the table that evening, I refused to eat the clam sauce, which is something that was never allowed in my family. You had to at least try everything. There was no getting around it. After a few minutes of badgering by all the adults at the table, who thought I was being silly for refusing Grandmom's coveted clam sauce, I just broke out in a huge fit of sobbing tears. Mom made me leave the table. Grandpop was angry and followed me out. I knew a whipping was coming.

When we got outside to the motel parking lot, Grandpop turned me to him roughly and asked what was wrong. He was totally baffled by my stubborn refusal to eat the clam sauce. Just a few hours before, I was scarfing raw clams like a fiend. Why was I being so silly now? I "clammed up", afraid to expose my thoughts. That made Grandpop even more angry. Just as he was reaching for his belt, I shouted, "'Cause it's cooked with pee!"

Grandpop just stared at me. He took his red bandana hanky out of his pocket ad wiped the back of his neck and said, "Boy... That's just plain stupid!" Then he laughed and dragged me back to the dining room, shoved me in my seat, and told everyone else what I had told him. Everyone, even my sister, howled with laughter. Grandmom asked me what had given me that idea. None of them had ever interpreted the smell the way I had.

Well, after Grandmom explained the ingredients, assuring me that no urine was involved, I agreed to give it a try. The smell still bothered me, but it was really good. Dinner went on as usual, although I ate with a warm blush of embarrassment that took a while to go away.