I have a short and complicated history with scallops.
Growing up in Maryland, my fondness for seafood mostly extended to the basics: canned tuna; flaky white fish; some crab, shrimp, and shellfish; occasional lobster and salmon.
I don’t remember starting to eat scallops until a decade ago, and they quickly struck me as more decadent.
At a wedding on Cape Cod, I swallowed one wrapped in bacon and feared needing the Heimlich as it briefly lodged in my throat. During a trip with my wife’s family to the Jersey shore, I spent a day on the toilet after consuming a seafood platter that included them.
To be clear, I accept all risks of shellfish consumption, and my troubles may have owed more to the kitchens’ liberal application of animal fat.
But as I’ve learned more about scallops in recent years—especially what’s required to put them on a plate—my appreciation has grown.
It’s hard work catching scallops in the deep of winter. And as a consumer, it’s no easy thing getting ones that haven’t been frozen, soaked in preservatives, or shipped from many miles away.
I’m used to thinking this way about terrestrial food: I grow my own vegetables and tend to enjoy the bacon cradling those scallops more when the pigs and farmers lead good lives, preferably nearby with minimal waste of other resources.
Yet only in recent years have I begun to think more deeply about seafood. It’s a big deal in Maine, where fishing and aquaculture are entwined with our economy, environment, and culture—and where the life-blood lobster industry faces challenges that have contributed to an ongoing drop in landings.
When it comes to Maine’s relatively tiny scallop fishery, I’m primarily struck by how dangerous it is to catch them, illustrated by the tragic drownings of multiple Downeast fishermen last year. I’m also fascinated by the new ways that local seafood producers are trying to raise them (see the page 1 article about the startup Seascale).
So I contrived a challenge for myself when I became the editor of The Working Waterfront late last year, heading into the winter scallop season.
I resolved to buy scallops off the dock, straight from the brave souls who caught them.
They’d be so fresh and local, I’d have to overcome my earlier hangups!
Turns out this was easier said than done, having almost no connections of my own in the fishing world.
So I did what comes much more naturally and found someone advertising dayboat scallops on Facebook. The message leapt out as I was scrolling the app first thing on a rainy weekday morning.
“Today we are in Belfast 1/15, across from the Reny’s parking lot,” a page called “Pride and Joy Peddling” had written 20 minutes earlier. “Please come get your fresh dry Maine day boat scallops today while you can! Price is $28lb. Have a good day and thank you for your support.”
I drove the 45 minutes from Owls Head to Belfast, where a sign beckoned me into the parking area, the words “Fresh Scallops” painted in black letters over plywood.
I parked near a pickup truck loaded with chest coolers. A woman named Samantha Benner met me at the tailgate and, using a digital scale, loaded a pound of the little white blobs into a clear plastic bag that she tied shut.
They were mine for $28.
When I asked about the scallops, Benner said that her father, Thurin, runs the operation. They buy them from fishermen and sell them in parking lots around Midcoast and central Maine.
Business was brisk. Three other buyers stopped by during our 10-minute interaction, including one guy who left empty-handed because he hadn’t brought cash.
I was mildly embarrassed to learn that the Benners had gotten these scallops in Spruce Head, just a short drive from where I had woken up that morning.
I returned that way, stopping at the grocery store for butter to cook them in.
Charles Eichacker is the editor of The Working Waterfront and Island Journal. He may be contacted at ceichacker@islandinstitute.org.
