Dan's Papers - May 6, 2008 - Twentysomething...By David Lion Rattiner

Last weekend felt like summer. The good vibes, the bad driving and the salty beer was all there. Saturday was gorgeous in Montauk and I made plans to cook dinner for a few friends at Ditch Plains.

My buddy Tom from the city and I went out to the fish market in Montauk to get some food and we fell in love with the idea of eating raw clams. Tom was so obsessed with the idea that he couldn't think clearly.

"Approximately how many clams are in two dozen?" he asked.

"Approximately 24," the owner of the market replied with a smile.

We made our way back to my place and I spread the clams out on the kitchen counter, all 24 of them.

"Do you have any idea how to shuck these?" Tom asked me.

"Of course I do. I'M A BONACKER!"

With pride, I busted out a shucking knife, which I secretly bought at the fish market. Tom's wife, my girlfriend and a few others started to pour into the driveway. It was time to start shucking.

I have absolutely no idea how to shuck a clam, but how hard could it be? I picked up a clam, and attempted to wedge the knife into it with no success. A little embarrassed, I tried sawing into the front of the clam. Nothing. The clam was like a steel fortress. How did the Indians break into these things, I thought.

"Be careful dude, you might cut yourself."

"Lay off me, I know what I'm doing. I was born shucking clams," I said with my best Bonac accent.

The fact of the matter is I'm the son of a newspaperman. My dad and I never have gone fishing or clamming together and he never taught me the waterways of Bonac Crick. I was taught politics, writing and the amazing taste of lox on a bagel - but I hate admitting that. After all, I'm third generation. I inherited clam-shucking ability. It is in my blood, along with boating, sailing, surfing, eating lobster every night of the week and knowing how to drive any large piece of construction equipment as well as an intimate understanding of how to build a deck, fix a motor and landscape 25 acres of a very rich man's private estate. It is my Bonac and God given right to shuck a few clams for guests at my home and then drink a Budweiser while discussing Little League games.

"I got this, don't worry," I said.

I drew the knife in closer, a grown man holding a knife close to his chest, knowing he could stab himself, attempting to shuck a clam. And then it happened. The knife sliced right through my thumb. I started to bleed on the clam, but I saw an opening and shucked my way through, with my thumb gushing.

"Dude, you're bleeding."

My thumb was really bleeding now and it required some attention, so I quickly wrapped it up with a paper towel. It was now really starting to hurt, but I didn't want to look like a wimp in front of my friends.

"You know what I'm thinking?"

"That you can't shuck a clam?"

"Of course I can shuck a clam. You just saw me do it. No, now I'm thinking that I'm really in the mood for some steamed clams."

"Yes, yes but - " Tom replied.

"Good. Now somebody get on the phone and call an ambulance. I think I need stitches."