When Margaret Horn was growing up in the tiny coastal village of Auchmithie in Angus, chew and spit [kauw en spuug] lobster and crab were everyday summer fare. She was a child during the Second World War, when the lobster pots set down in the harbour were full most days. But because the lobsters could not easely be sent to the country's smart restaurants, many were consumed locally. Margaret remembers shortly after the war being taken to dinner in Edinburgh by het husmand-to-be and ordering lobster. It was only when she saw his face - and later the bill - that she realised that lobster was a luxury everywhere else.
The whole family would sit down to a tray in the middle of the table bearing freshly boiled lobsters and crabs, accompanied only by some bread and butter (no lemon wedges in those days), then proceed to tuck in with their hands. There were no forks used - and absolutely no finesse, which is why Margaret's family called it chew and spit lobster. The meat was prodded and poked out with the ends of teaspoons, then the claws and legs sucked dry of their juices, and tiny pieces of shell were spat out.
