I cooked dinner tonight in a thong and an
apron.  I imagined you were there watching me. 
I put on a little Bossanova and felt your gaze
upon me as I dice the shallots and garlic.  I felt
your caress as I delicately simmered them in olive
oil, simmering underneath that apron.  I gently poured
the tomatoes and the white wine, a delicious aroma
wafting past my nose, it was your smooth neck.  Then
after patiently waiting, stirring and stirring, I put
the hot concoction to my lips. Ummmmm! Not too salty
not too sweet.

She, the pot, was ready for the main
ingredient, the mussels, violently debeared and
cleaned, seemingly too hard to possibly be edible upon
first glance.  Could that shell, sleek and steely
gray, be pentrated, softened, coxed into opening up?
One by one in they went, so as not to splash, shocking
that perfectly simmering sweet pot.  I closed the lid,
for privacy, but I knew what was going on in there.
All of her aromatic steam was working away at those
hard mussels one by one, until they secumbed,
releasing their equally integral, savory essense, and
mixing together to form an intoxicating gastronomic
orgy.  When I shyly uncovered them, I was uncertain of
what I might find.  Had I given them enough time to
bond? 

Sure enough each of those dauntingly hard shells had
opened, some boldly and completely, and yet others
opened just enough to be edible, but threatening to
close up again.  However, once the ritual was over and
the course was served, those shy mussels did stay open
and I ate them all licking my lips and fingertips.
Eating mussels can be a messy affair if not done
properly. The correct amount of pressure must be
applied or the eater will be splashed or worse the
mussel will go flying across the room.  Yes, eating
mussels is a messy affair.