Not really. Well, sorta. Buckets of Clams is a song that the goldminers were quite fond of back in '49. Once upon a time, I knew the tune, which is a familiar American ditty. But damned if I can remember it now.
It comes to mind because of these photos, which I took last Sunday when the NIL (that's nephew -in-law to those not in the know) and I went to Redondo Beach Pier.
The first two are the living breathing clams, awaiting their fate, $7.50 a pound, in the holding tanks of the fish market.
This last, however, is the clams after death, after consumption, with only the detritus of their very existence, sheltering on an outdated Chinese language newspaper, to show for their once and future glory.
See that little thing sticking up in the center of the last photo? That, I believe, is what's called a neck. It is black and wrinkled, sort of like an elephant's trunk--or a penis. In fact, the NIL when instructing me how to eat these particular clams said I should circumcise the clam, and showed me how to strip off the outer layer of the, um, neck. I can't say that this improved their appearance at all, but they were sure good.