This is a true story.
Because, not all the other stories are always true, y'see? This one's true.
I awoke the other morning straining to figure out how I could get a stack of empty mussel shells. I have a little DIY project going on, some embellishment to the hem of curtains, and it needs lots of clean, pretty (and lightweight) shells.
There's this guy I sort of know, the GM at a seafood restaurant. I imagined calling him and asking if the kitchen would mind setting aside shells for me. Then I imagined his answer: "Jayzuz, woman! Hell, no! They will not do this for you. By the way, please come in for a drink."
I know my hobby store does not sell mussel shells.
What to do? The only way to get mussel shells seems to be... Oh smack me with a mackerel! Eat them yourself.
That very day we dropped in on our French bistro and each of us ordered the Moules Florentine. Ohgod. Dozens of specimens in each bowl, too many to eat at one sitting. Delicious.
(And this was my first restaurant foray since foreswearing gluten. It seemed to work, and I didn't even have to bug the waiter.)
So now I have a fridge full of stinky, empty shells. I'm going to wait a day or two longer, so they're really ripe, and all the animal matter just slips off when I wash them.
No matter how clever I think I am curtain-wise, though, I believe eating the mussels was the better experience. Maybe we won't have enough shells for this project. We'll have to go back!