I'm Adeli Mone and this is The Slowdown.

I love oysters, I love the ritual of them.

The tray of a dozen or half dozen arriving on ice, the lemon, the cocktail sauce, the

classic minionette, in a topsy-turvy world where chaos and trauma abound, there's

something about the tradition of ordering oysters and eating oysters that seems

sophisticated, ceremonial. I haven't always been able to afford oysters, but if

they are an option, I love how fresh oysters can taste as if you're simply

inhaling the ocean itself. Once when I was in New York, I went to the Grand

Central Oyster Bar on the main floor of Grand Central Station, tucked away from

the maddened crowd with dark wood walls and bar seating conducive to the lone

traveler craving good seafood and a beer before heading back from whence they

came. The Grand Central Oyster Bar opened three weeks after Grand Central

opened its doors in 1913 and with its arched ceilings covered with

Spanish tiles, it's still one of my favorite spots in all of New York. If you

sit at the counter, you can watch the line cooks chuck oysters and chat with them

as you wait for your order. It's not precious or too cool for school or even

overly upscale, but for some reason it's one of the most sensual restaurants I've

been to. Alright, I know why it's sensual. Oysters. Who can deny the aphrodisiacle

draw of the oyster, the feminine power that pulses beneath the shell? There's

something sexual about the oyster and there's no other way to say it. Today's

poem honors the sensuality of eating an oyster for the first time. I love how

it activates all the senses and lets us experience the event right along with

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