The Coast—It's Ok To Eat With Your Hands

I was baptized an Oregonian in July of 1974 off the coast near Florence. I'd been religiously anointed into my family's chosen faith years before, but this was the ritual that marked my passage into true state citizenship. It's a ceremony that dates back thousands of years, to when Native Americans first settled these parts: I caught my first salmon.

I';m sure time has made my memories of that fish's girth and the details of our epic battle at sea much more dramatic than they really were. In a photo taken after coming ashore, the headless fish appears to be the length of a Coleman cooler. Back then it seemed about as long as I was tall. That night in our campground we enjoyed a dinner of grilled salmon, and smoked the rest when we got home. It was my introduction to cooking at the source.

Years later, when my family would converge on Garibaldi with our crab rings, frozen fish heads and small boat during Dungeness season, I began to truly appreciate how lucky we are to have the Oregon coast as our backyard. After a morning out on Tillamook Bay, we'd often return with as many crabs as we could eat that night, and would fire up the propane stockpot. I’ve had some pretty complicated meals in my lifetime, but nothing that tasted better than a simple green salad, fresh rustic bread, and a mess of whole Dungeness crab spread out on the table waiting to be cracked. It's a primitive, free-for-all approach to eating, and proper utensils would just get in the way.

There's something about the Oregon Coast that makes this kind of tactile dining seem natural. I think it's the way the ocean assaults all of your senses: the spray of saltwater on your face, the unrelenting roar of waves beating against the rocks, the smell of beached seaweed on a long stretch of sand, the quivering last light of day when the sun dips beyond the horizon. It's sensory overload, and utterly romantic. Maybe that's why some of the best dates in my life required little more than a basket full of nosh, a blanket, and fort made of driftwood.

I'm hard pressed to say which part of the Oregon Coast is my favorite. From the hotels and restaurants that have risen out of the old fish canneries in Astoria, to quaint inns that dot Highway 101, to the bustling stretch from Lincoln City to Depoe Bay, to the quiet fairways that snake their way through Bandon Dunes, there are so many different personalities along this stretch of road. What connects them all is the stewardship of earlier generations that demanded these beaches be public and accessible to all, forever. And no matter which one I'll be visiting, there's always the same sense of anticipation I feel about ten miles away, when the cool ocean breeze sneaks through the window, the low-lying bank of fog comes into view, and I taste again the memory of meals past.

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