I bless these crisp curlicues of clams that greet me with their briny arms.

My empty belly fills with their bellies, their salt, their brine, the paleozoic underbelly of my soul.

I forgive them for their squirts in my eye when I grubbed in the muck as a kid, and upraised them from the safety of nesting in their slime.

I bless the crunch of cold slaw with a bitter hint of vinegar.

I bless the grease of the lard gods, in the breading of these onion rings and bivalves, as I bless the sweet potato fries for harboring the grease, for these are the blessings of the cook.