This isn't really a "recipe", per se, as much as it is a "hard lesson in life". Or a "character building experience". Or a "tragedy". Judge for yourselves. What's worse, I dragged an innocent victim into this mess (two, if you count the lobster), for which I'm sure I'll spend extra time in Purgatory.

Only once in my life have I ever cooked a live lobster. I will never repeat the experience.... oh, the horror, the horror... it took me years to get over it. First, I convinced my friend who had never had lobster before (because he's a Seventh Day Adventist and it's against their religion to eat red things with claws, or cloven hoofed things, or some such restriction like that, I don't exactly remember) that he'd missed out on one of Mother Nature's truly wonderful taste treats. So he goes and buys a live lobster, calls me up and tells me to come over and bring a huge pot and an appetite, and I do. When I get there, he opens the door and there in his hallway is this creature trundling around on the floor. It was kind of cute. I'd never played with one before. The big rubber bands holding its claws shut were still on, so it was safe.

We continued to play with it and even gave it a name, which I have mercifully forgotten, while the huge pot of water was heating up. The water was taking a long time to come to the recommended "full boil". We were getting impatient and hungry. The lobster, deprived of water for some time now, was getting sluggish and less fun to play with. We decided that the kind of hot water that has some steam coming off the top and lots of tiny bubbles in the pot was close enough to a "full boil" for us. In went the lobster.

I'd heard all the old wives tales about how lobsters "scream" when you dump them into boiling water. I suppose I should be happy that at least that urban legend is false. But then something happened that urban legend has neglected to mention. As soon as the poor thing hit the water, it re-animated instantly, horribly, and we're the ones who began to do the screaming as we frantically searched for something to use as a lid for the Death Cauldron. We could find nothing that would fit, and we scalded ourselves rather badly as we resorted to using a variety of utensils to poke back its claws as the lobster tried to climb out. After what felt like an eternity - yes I know it's a cliché, but it FITS this time - its struggles lessened and all we could hear for what felt like another eternity, was the scritch-scratch of its claws against the metal sides of the pot, getting slower and slower and slower. Then, finally, at last thank God, the sounds ceased.

After we stopped crying, we applied half a stick of butter to our burned hands and forearms. Then, so that the lobster's torturous end didn't come in vain, we melted the other half of the butter stick, and in solemn silence, we ate the lobster with some asparagus. It was delicious.

Epilogue:

My friend got in huge trouble when his parents came home and found the remains of "forbidden heathen food" in the garbage. I was never allowed to come to dinner at their house again.