BWB and I are in Florida visiting family at the moment. It’s been wonderful, even though we both still have to study while we are here — there’s something to be said for studying on the beach!

Tonight we went out to dinner and I ordered fried oysters, one of my favorite bad-for-me indulgences. As I tasted them, I was puzzled by the flavor; something seemed not quite right about it. I finally realized that they were citrusy, some kind of lemon flavor in the breading, and I have become accustomed to hot sauce and pepper on my fried oysters (or anything else, for that matter).

This comes on the heels of our first night here, wherein we went to a pizza joint and ordered food to go. I asked for a beer as well, and when the manager cracked open the bottle and handed it to me, I was flustered. I was fairly certain that I couldn’t carry the open container out of the store, but was she giving this to me now instead of with the food because I couldn’t take a closed container as carry-out, either? I realized I had no idea what the laws were regarding alcoholic beverages. I mean, I knew better than to ask for a go cup, but beyond that I was completely clueless. (It turned out she had just misunderstood and was happy to give me a new, unopened bottle in a nice paper bag to take home with me. It was tasty, as was my calzone, but that’s beside the point.)

At dinner tonight, I relayed my oyster epiphany with amusement, and pointed out that taking into consideration both of the incidents I was definitely having issues. He grinned.

“We’re just New Orleanians now, baby. That’s all.”

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Now pass me the Crystal. There’s something wrong with my oysters.