I strolled into The Lobster Place at Chelsea Market on Sunday.   Oh the conflict and the guilt … yes, I’m admittedly torn.  I not only like lobster meat, I love lobster meat.  Heck, I’d roll around in it naked if I could afford to. But, I also feel a great deal of conflict when it comes to how these unsuspecting crustaceans meet their fate.   I remember a compassionate Foodie-friend of mine from dinners past who would insist on giving the lobsters a booze-soaked sponge bath before going in for their hot water swim.  He was a nice guy with a refined palate.

I’ve tried to assuage my guilt by reminding myself that I no longer eat red meat, pork, lamb or veal or any other adorable animal with an adorable face and that I stopped wearing fur decades ago after a sudden and heartfelt epiphany (followed by a respectable mea-culpa to an animal rights organization; but it still leads me back to the lobster.  And it’s fate.

I’ll admit I prefer to live in denial, much like an ostrich with its head in the sand, and discover my lobster meat neatly wrapped and packaged at the bottom of my reusable, environmentally friendly shopping bag, no questions asked.  In the end, my fleshly desires win out over my remorseful conscience.

In fairness, there is something about a chunk of freshly-steamed lobster, dipped in clarified butter and washed down with a crisp Pinot Grigio that says “just for today, all is right in my world.”  And it is.