Foraging follies...

Okay, lets talk mussels. No, not my muscles (check the spelling), but the ones I found at Borth-y-Gest last weekend clinging to the rocks in their thousands.

Now as you know I am an avid forager, and these muscles looked so good I couldn't resist even though I have a love hate relationship with hard-shelled shellfish. I love them and sometimes they hate me.

I should have learnt from the fresh clam spaghetti that made me ill a few weeks ago. But they were bought from Sainsbury's and weren't fresh from the sea. These shellfish were. So I picked a couple of dozen, took them home and cleaned them, removing the beards and barnacles, scrubbing then until they shone like gems and rinsing them in cold salted water before cooking them in garlic, wine, cream, and parsley.

They all opened. They all looked fine. They tasted delicious.

So why was it that I found myself all at sea in the early hours of the next morning?

As always Gaynor was fine, just as she was with the Sainsbury clams. Just what have shellfish got against me?

I'm not giving up though, the next time I may be luckier.

Or dead.