“Coming in hot!” shouted David, navigating a pathway through the chairs to the oyster-shucking station. Roasting oysters, I discovered, was a craft David, the host, had learned in his childhood days from his father when they lived in Wilmington, North Carolina, and then rediscovered in his adult years when he moved to a house with the “perfect” fire pit in the suburbs of Richmond. He quickly reclaimed this family tradition from his childhood and made a habit of sharing it with others. 

It was a chilly night, with temperatures in the forties and an eclectic mix of folding chairs and camp chairs set up in the backyard. A waist-high plywood table held an assortment of tools, bowls of melted butter, and cocktail sauce. About thirty neighbors, friends, family, and coworkers shared bits and pieces of our connection to the host, David, who wore a Carolina cap, flannel shirt, and jeans. In between greeting guests, he tossed perfectly sized logs from a small woodpile near the shrubs onto the fire. Ned, a gentleman from Laurel, Mississippi, who owns property south of Jackson, said he hasn’t been able to travel for some time because his dog’s diabetes requires him to administer two injections a day. Jack, another guest, had recently retired after being broadsided at the crack of dawn on his way to the gym. His gray Honda flipped twice, and he’s lucky to be alive, he said, but forever changed. His good-natured wife affectionately teased him about being added to her list of responsibilities as she navigates the care of her elderly father, who lives with them. An older couple who had moved to the area 18 months ago to be near their daughter, after living for 30 years in a 50-plus community, said they’re happy to be living alongside young and old again. 

We traded these stories during the mesmerizing roasting of oysters over a fire pit. David would dump a bucket holding about thirty oysters—alternating between Rappahannock (a little sweet) and Chincoteague (the salty ones)—onto a square, quarter-inch-thick metal plate carefully positioned over the firepit. Then, with a heavy fire-resistant gray glove on his left hand, he would gently spread out the oysters. Finally, he covered the crusty shells in a piece of burlap soaked in water (not Bourbon, as one witty guest suggested) and added a little more water to the mix for good measure. The hissing sound and curls of steam assured him all was in order. Every so often, David checked to see if the mollusks had begun to pop open, and when he intuited they were ready, he scooped them off the metal plate with a large shovel to move to the next stage.

“How many do you buy when you’re hosting a roast?” I asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he responded. “I bought 300 for tonight. 30 people, 300 oysters. It sounded about right.” 

Yes, it was. It really was. Thirty people, 300 oysters, and a story worth sharing and living again.

On occasions such as these, I am reminded once again of the power of stories and shared experiences to ground us and to knit us together as people. “We need connection and stories and experiences that help us transcend our own lives and to connect with others and ideas bigger than ourselves,” writes Julia Taylor. I believe our world is hungry for this kind of connection. Whether roasting oysters around a fire pit or simply spending time with others, these moments remind us we belong to something more.

“We need connection and stories and experiences that help us transcend our own lives and to connect with others and ideas bigger than ourselves.”–Julia Taylor