On closer inspection, in the center of an otherwise innocuous looking breakfast tableau, one notices a pile of crunch-rippled mounds the largest of which is roughly the size of my (admittedly smallish) fist. Here lies the remains of the Christmas sea-spoils: oyster fritters. Now, consumed as they were in surrounds charming with wintry mix and hot coffee, it would be easy to gloss over any shortcomings they might have presented, but that won’t do. They were in fact far too dense and the flavor bordered on bland (though the chevre in the mix was a definite plus). Lessons learned? Fritters stick wherever they want to, and, like some globulous sea — space?– anemone, prefer to seep through and adhere to the mesh basket sort of like this:

None of this has compromised our devotion to the fryer. Fat is fat, and that means even bland is deep-fried bland, the lowest level of which, assuming clean oil, will still have a special, clogged place in my heart. Probably forever.