Some people consider oysters a delicacy. Others have religious objections to eating creatures that live in shells. Some people are allergic to them. And others just happen to like them. But I don’t like them. I also don’t like okra very much, except maybe in soup. I consider okra the oyster of the plant kingdom. However, no matter what my tastes might be, I don’t think less of anyone who likes oysters. A lot of marvelous people like oysters, and I like people who like oysters. I just don’t like oysters.
We have a friend in France, Jacques, who absolutely adores oysters. He considers them to be one of the finest foods on the planet, next to French wines, of course. Several years ago, Michele and I had the privilege of playing for his granddaughter’s wedding. Naturally, oysters and champagne were served at the reception. The champagne, as anyone could imagine, was superb. The oysters, not so much. At least to me. But our friend didn’t know that. Why would he? Of course, everyone loves fresh raw oysters. I’m sure many Frenchmen do. And many Americans, too. Just not me.
Despite our minimal abilities in the French language, we were doing our best to mingle and pick up on the conversations around us. Tout de suite, Jacques seemed to appear from out-of-nowhere with a tiny plate containing one raw oyster on a half-shell. It was clear, if not from his words, from his body language, that he was offering this fine delicacy to me. The twinkle in his eyes spoke as clearly as any language. I just didn’t have the heart to decline his offer. “Merci!” I said. In a moment I had consumed oyster number one. I smiled and nodded as he told me how fresh and delightful these oysters were. All I could seem to do was agree. “Tres bien. D’accord,” I said. This was the best I could do, given my grade school French. With a look of pleasure, Jacques turned and walked away. I think he believed he had found another oyster passionné.
I quickly downed the rest of my champagne. In a minute, Jacques returned with another. Oyster number two. Jacques smiled. I smiled. Round two on the champagne followed. So, it went for several minutes. To be fair, they weren’t so bad after a couple of flutes of champagne. And Jacques was so happy! He was introducing his American friend to one of the finest foods of France. And I was happy that he was happy!
After the first five oysters, I was beginning to worry about having too many of France’s finest. Maybe it was the champagne, but I suddenly remembered a decent way to decline. Oyster six arrived. Champagne six was quaffed. “Une autre?” Jacques asked. “Merci. C’est assez,” I replied, which is to say, “that’s enough, thanks.” Jacques seemed satisfied. Michele looked amazed. Six oysters. To me, the gastronomic equivalent of eyeballs or perhaps some other kind of balls. But, just as a spoon full of sugar helps the medicine go down, a swallow of champagne helped each oyster go down – in a most delightful way. At least for oyster number six. And increasingly for oysters one through five. Michele was wondering how many I would eat before I would risk disappointing Jacques. That number was six.
So, what’s the point? Sometimes we need to put aside our personal preferences to accommodate other people. We all need to learn the difference between enduring a hardship and a momentary inconvenience, between exercising our right to do what we want and doing something that might benefit another person. Oysters are a trivial example, to be sure, even though I really don’t like them and would have preferred not to eat them. I haven’t eaten one since. Even so, doing something small for another person isn’t like losing your freedom or committing a crime. After all, Jacques did not ask me to help him get rid of a body. It was only a few raw oysters. And obviously we all need to draw the line somewhere.
If I can eat six oysters at a wedding reception, and risk gagging in front of a crowd of well-dressed French people, I can wear a mask in public. I can let go of a few of my personal preferences for the sake of others. I can find it in my heart to be inconvenienced from time-to-time, so others might be healthy and happy. We don’t all think alike. We don’t all act alike. We don’t all see the world in the same way. Such a thing is neither possible nor desirable. The old saying, “variety is the spice of life,” comes to mind. Jacques and I may never share the same love of oysters. But I like to believe we share the same love of our fellow travelers on this planet. Just as the French believe sharing good food is like sharing love, I believe there is love in our willingness to take care of one another.
MurrayWorks 