Photo courtesy Randy RandallSteam rises from the lobster pit as family and guests await the completion of a classic Maine lobster bake.
July 2023
By Randy Randall
A traditional lobster bake – at least as I understood them growing up – uses driftwood, seawood and hot stones, items typically found on or near any beach in Maine, and that iconic crustacean our state is known for, lobsters. Modern bakes use propane burners and not much seaweed, and the ingredient list can widely vary. It all depends on where you grew up, or even if your family had them.
Ours did. Or, rather, Dad did. On special occasions he’d decide to host a lobster bake and invite the neighbors. Or perhaps our relatives from Mexico – the country, not the town in Maine – were visiting, and there was cause for celebration. Dad would make the announcement, but we boys got to do the work. Not everyone has a pan or tray big enough. Dad salvaged an old cast iron sink out of the defunct Saco Lowell shops. This thing weighed a ton. It spent most of the year lying in the bushes and we needed the marina winch truck to lift it out. We stacked cement blocks and set the iron sink on top. Decrepit marina docks provided the wood to fuel our fire.
Early on the morning of the lobster bake we headed for the ocean and pulled armfuls of seaweed off the rocks. We filled five-gallon pails and trash bags. Around mid-morning we started our fire.
We used a garden hose to fill the sink and before long had steam rising up into the air. Usually there were lobsters, clams, corn on the cob, brown eggs, red potatoes, kielbasa and perhaps a striped bass wrapped in tinfoil. Inside the house the women had prepared potato salad, three-bean salad, hot melted butter, various green salads, Parker House rolls and blueberry muffins and pies.
Coolers were scattered about filled with all kinds of cold drinks – help yourself. While we stoked the fire Dad strolled about gauging his time. We had a sheet of copper wire screening to hold the clams. Finally, Dad announced it was time to cook. “Load it up,” he said and we dumped bucket after bucket of seaweed into the sink. Clouds of hot steam filled the air. We piled on bushels of lobsters and a bushel of clams and a peck or two of unhusked corn. Next was a colander filled with eggs and another one with small red potatoes. Lastly, a few coils of kielbasa. We layered on more seaweed and then pulled the tarp over. The tarp was a very old and stiff canvas. We rolled it out over the food, tucking the edges down into the hot water and trapping in the steam.
Dad checked his watch. We patrolled back and forth with rakes and shovels tending the white-hot coals, which were shuffled around to ensure even heat under all of the sink. We threw on more wood. We added water. The steam seeped through the weave of the tarp and around the edges of the pan. By now we were getting sweaty, hot and tired. Time passed. Dad might have had a drink or two and in time he arrived on the scene and said, “it’s done.”
We sprayed water on the fire to dampen it down and that caused even more clouds of steam. We put on heavy leather gloves and peeled off the tarp, being careful not to get burned. We pulled the seaweed off the top of the pile to reveal bright red lobsters cooked to perfection. We filled plates and platters with lobsters, corn, handfuls of clams and hard-boiled eggs. The kielbasa was a treat for us guys. We stood around cutting pieces and dragging them through wicked-hot mustard. All over the house and the backyard happy eaters found places to sit or stand and dig in. The general noise and hubbub died down as people ate the corn and clams and broke apart the lobsters. In a while we’d get busy with trash cans collecting all the waste from the feast. But, for now, we were allowed to eat whatever was left still simmering on the bake. People dropped by for seconds, too, but Dad always made sure there was enough. We boys had our fill of lobsters and clams and sweet corn, along with the rest. And when the day was well done and everyone had said how good it was and what delicious food, Dad would find us and tell us to be sure to soak the fire and make sure it was out. Tomorrow we’d back up the marina truck and lift the old sink off the cement blocks and store it back in the bushes for another year.
Frequent contributor, correspondent and friend, Randy Randall is co-owner of Marston’s Marina in Saco, Maine and a dreamer and waterman of the first order.
