Harvesting Bliss
When we venture out to forage in nature, we try not to leave anything to chance. We plan for the weather and dress accordingly; we turn to nature for clues on where to look; and we educate ourselves to ensure we don’t hurt more than we harvest. The thrill of foraging is amplified by the fact that Mother Nature is truly the one in charge. She will permit you to look, but she will rarely offer a guarantee of harvest. One foraging adventure has captured my heart as of late: harvesting soft shell clams, or steamers, as I grew up calling them. Spirited digging intertwined with the patient study of sand, the raw beauty of Nantucket’s west end, and the confidence boost that only gathering one’s own dinner can provide – all parts must align perfectly, and when they do, it’s pure bliss.
Most wild foods on the island are ripe for hunting and harvesting between the verdant months of late spring and early fall, but digging for steamers feels deliberately saved for year-rounders; Sundays only from September 15th to June 15th. As a year-rounder myself, I am ashamed to admit the number of years that had gone by before my hands ever sank the teeth of a rusty clam rake into the sand in search of Nantucket steamers. Ultimately, I’ve determined that “Washashores” like me can forgive themselves for this blunder. We were not born here; it is not a normal pastime for the landlocked. Since being initiated into a family of island natives, however, “normal” pastimes now include the former, in addition to other decidedly unique adventures like boating to a Tuckernuck Shoal only visible during low tide for a beach day.
Now thoroughly reformed, I love exposing new people to the joys of steamering and watching their eyes open to it for the first time. I love experiencing the wonder and the challenge of filling a basket with them, reliving my own first time, and reminiscing in their joyful disbelief when they pull one deep from the sand. Their happy, sunlit grins gleam from ear to ear while kneeling in their borrowed waders and gloves caked in sand and mud. The last couple I took along were so sure they wouldn’t have fun that one forgot the pair of boots I loaned them. Despite missing the tide and finding just a few clams, the pair (well into their thirties) goofed and played on the shore like grade schoolers, taking photos, hunting for arrowheads, and enjoying the wild expanse of Esther’s Island as only one can on a bracing late November day.
For my small family, when the calendar and tides align and the forecast calls for sun, we clear our Sunday schedule. Into the truck go our oilers (or bibs, depending on who taught you to fish), clam rake, metal bushel basket, tall boots, dog, and rubber fishing gloves.
Dogs especially love clamming; you could only learn that your pup’s favorite food on earth was an inadvertently cracked raw steamer in its shell if you took her along, watching her lip-curled smile grow wider and muddier with each nose-nudge into the muck.
To lengthen the adventure on what would otherwise be a sedentary winter’s day, I prefer to park the truck at Smith’s Point’s kayak beach and walk the inside shoreline in my waders and boots. By the time we arrive at the steamer beds, we’re sweating. If the sun’s out and the wind is light, we’re likely digging in just t-shirts, willing a summer’s afternoon into fruition. The limit for steamers in a single outing is less than half a bushel; however, this amount is more than generous for an ample dinner plus some for sharing. Sometimes it takes just minutes to get our limit (Jim is native, so he has a home team advantage). On other days, we spread out along the shoreline, leaving the clams teetering along the sandy pool edges where they were unearthed, mindful of the inevitable flooding tide. I marvel at their fragile design. Their blue-grey shells are thin like porcelain, and they bulge at the seams with life, and I can’t help but laugh when they blindly squirt brine in defiance with each alerting probe of a dog’s nose.
After harvesting our limit, we give ourselves a splash to rinse our bibs, give the clams a dunk, and slowly make our way back to the truck. Blissfully dirty and tired, we hold hands by our bushel basket, yoking it between us by clam rake handle, our hearts pounding softly under the weight of our gear. There’s one last thing to do before we can head home since clams are not on the menu tonight: Unlike the world-famous steamers served in paper boats along the route from Ipswich to Maine that bed in satiny, jet-black silt, Nantucket steamers are a more rough and tumble lot. Wedged eight inches down, they grow their eggshell-thin bodies between large rocks, crushed pebbles, sand, and clay. A tiny opening, barely a centimeter wide at the surface, is devised to siphon fresh, oxygen-rich seawater into their gills, along with plenty of sand. A five-gallon bucket comes along for the ride, and we’ll fill it up with seawater by the Madaket pier before taking it home to purge the clams of their gritty bellies overnight in the shanty. Perhaps it’s a bit over the top, but I have found that repeating the seawater soak two to three times over a few days is sufficient for a near guarantee of a gravel-free meal. It’s a labor of love, for sure, but when care and thought go into the harvest, finding the time to honor it becomes effortless.
If our harvest day is one from a colder month, the clams are enjoyed simply: steamed on the stove and served with drawn butter; homemade sausages from the freezer; or Gaspar’s linguica in a pinch; fresh bread; wilted garlicky winter greens; and a bottle of Vermont cider. But if they were foraged in spring, when a beautiful evening is not something to be taken for granted, our steamer dinner plans get a lot more magical. Back into the truck go the steamers in their bucket, along with the outdoor propane burner and tank; two pots: one big for steaming and one little for butter; tongs; a few metal bowls for serving and discards. A tote packed with two sticks of salted butter, fresh bread, homemade hot sauce, and a bottle of crisp, minerally Old World white, along with wine glasses and fabric napkins completes the picnic. This simple dinner, enjoyed on the tailgate facing the south shore, as the water glimmers under the vernal sunset’s golden hues and the dog enjoys a few discarded shells under the truck, there is only one thing left to do: bask in gratitude for the earthly pleasures we have been granted in foraging, and in this case, nothing has been left to chance.
Leah Mojer, classically trained in culinary arts, is dedicated to promoting biodiversity in the food and wine industries through education, food production, and retail sectors. She’s recognized for her expertise in Charcuterie, featured in Edward Behr’s “The Art of Eating,” and has published food and wine articles in island newsletters from Yesterday’s Island and Bartlett’s Farm. Leah was a founding member of 100 Mile Makers, an active member of the Nantucket Lights Steering Committee, and serves on the Nantucket Land and Water Council Associates. She also founded the Nantucket Litter Derby, which has removed 32 tons of litter from Nantucket’s environment since 2019. Leah resides on Nantucket.
