How my father taught me how to be a dad, one roasted Lowcountry oyster at a time
“Boy, take your time and pay attention to what you’re doing!”
I started shucking oysters when I was young — age 5 to be exact. Even still, my dad held no mercy when teaching me how to open and eat them. “Don’t jam it in there,” he would say. “Just put the knife in the back and twist it.”
Charleston, South Carolina’s oyster season starts in November. There’s no snow and no glove and scarf combinations, but for my family, this was when holiday traditions would begin. The last week of the month is when Clemson and the University of South Carolina football teams meet for state bragging rights; dad raised me and my two younger brothers as Clemson Tiger fans. Usually, my mom would prepare a pot of red rice, that cultural cornerstone of Charleston’s food scene that connects Gullah Geechee culture and West Africa.
But in late November, it’s all about the oysters, the perfect complement to any Lowcountry dish. Their salinity balances the smoky and semisweet flavors of red rice. They pair well with heartier and fatty dishes like Frogmore Stew or a simple bowl of lima beans (seasoned with pig tail) and rice. Lowcountry oysters carry the flavors of Charleston’s waterways and potentially help preserve the city’s rich culture from climate change. I know all that now. But as a kid, the main focus as I sit down for a late November meal is simply trying to unearth the flesh within the oyster itself.
Parental lessons appear in many forms. I’ve absorbed many alongside my dad, watching football while roasting Lowcountry clustered oysters. Ironically, his lessons bore simplicity — usually one sentence of wisdom. “Get on your horse and run full speed!” Or my favorite: “The only place success comes before work is in the dictionary.” Teachings about active listening, attention to detail, and love were best received with the air slightly chilled and as mud-covered oyster knives lay at table corners. The time I cut my hand open stands out the most. As blood trickled down my wrist and a warm onset of panic filled my 8-year-old-body, my dad remained focused on opening his oyster. He’s always been a tough-but-fair kind of guy, and his response — without even making eye contact with me — was short, direct, and impactful. “See, I keep telling you to slow down. Go turn the water hose on, so I can rinse off your hand.” Always stay focused, never flinch, and learn from your mistakes early — I never knew life lessons could be found in a handful of blood.
It’s weird to think of our consuming oysters as a means to father-son bonding. The more I reflect, especially since becoming a father and moving away from Charleston in 2007, the more I appreciate those moments. The divinity, the magic, the coincidences, they all connect over a bushel of oysters in November and December. The tradition continues, as my son has been brought into the fold. Even still, my dad holds his position firm as the head of the family and I often find myself changing my own disposition, reverting to my younger self. It’s a godlike process reminding me to stay humble.
New me, same us
Now, every year that I return home with my family for the holiday, I’m designated the oyster sourcing chairman. A simple task — call Mr. Sammy.
I’ve known Mr. Sammy Backman since I was 3 years old; he’s responsible for all my angler knowledge. He and his family own the oldest Black-owned seafood company in South Carolina, Backman’s Seafood. The family traces its roots to the “Mosquito Fleet,” a group of enslaved fishermen who crafted their small boats from salvaged wood and equipped them with homemade sails, navigating without any aids. These fishermen would venture as far as 20 miles offshore. Mr. Sammy’s father, Thomas Backman, whose grandparents were enslaved on James Island, began fishing the Stono River with his wife, Susie, in 1944. In the 1950s, they bought a trawler and established Backman Seafood Company on Sol Legare Road.
The short 30-minute drive from my dad’s house in Goose Creek to meet Mr. Sammy on James Island offers additional nostalgic memories. “Hey, hey,” Mr. Sammy utters, as I drive up. Visions of the creek in the distance and homes sitting on stilts, just off Sol Legare Road, look and smell like my youth. I respond by asking, rhetorically, “How they lookin’?” He struggles to lift the potato sack filled with fresh muddied oysters from Folly Creek. “You need more?” he jokingly asks. “No sir, this plenty here,” I respond, matching his laughter. We talk for a little bit before I head up Interstate 26, back to Goose Creek.
The frigid air intensifies — by Charleston standards — keeping the bushel fresh, even after my quick detour to buy boiled peanuts. By the time I return, my dad has the grill lit. The suburban life afforded my parents their dream house, but not the landscape for an open-fire oyster roast. Instead, Dad empties the bushel, rinsing away the mud and soaking the potato sack. We’re roasting them on the grill, covering the oysters with the sack so they’ll pop open a tad from the steam.
It doesn’t take long for them to open, a little over 10 minutes. During that time, my dad, my brothers, and my son sit by the grill. There’s always a football within reach. My youngest brother holds a mini practice session, tossing the ball to his daughter and my son. As a beer industry journalist, I’ve lined up a few selections, encouraging my dad to take a sip. He refuses, as he’s not a drinker. I laugh, recognizing his hesitation every time I offer him a beer.
He lifts the grill top, peeking under the potato sack, and checking for opened shells. A few pop, so he removes each from the grill and onto the table outside. “Aye, y’all boy come eat!” he replies, in a thick Lowcountry Gullah Geechee accent. I head inside and grab paper towels and a bottle of Texas Pete. Mom is in the house; although she’s a Charleston native, she’s never been an oyster fan. I grab a quick spoon-sized sample of the red rice on my way back outside and a kiss from my wife, a first-generation Guyanese American who enjoys banter with my mom, as she recognizes the similarities between the Caribbean food she grew up eating and our Gullah Geechee dishes.
We all begin eating. The joy of shucking an oyster remains familiar. It’s different now, though. The moments of overflowing euphoria haven’t left. The youthful look on my dad’s face has. I realize we’re all closer to having fewer holiday gatherings together than we’ve had in the past. Life is going to life, and the unfortunate reality looms. We’re all aging.
The short silence as my family concentrates on opening their first oysters seems like days. My wife unknowingly interrupts my reflection: “Can I try one?” I extend my oyster knife towards her, as a freshly opened oyster, my first of the day, sits on the blade. “Damn, that’s salty!” she exclaims.
As we watch the game through the patio window, I realize nothing has changed but everything is changing. I left home 17 years ago, landing in D.C., for no reason other than I needed a change. I left Charleston thinking I’d never go back. As I get older, I miss home a lot more, especially during the holidays — I’m actually glad the way we celebrate them is not commercialized. Had it been, the impact would have lost its vigor.
Since becoming a father, noticing the similarities I share with my dad brings chuckles and a divine life perception. We’re spitting images of one another; same walk, same smile, and oftentimes, the same attitude. My mom reminds me every time I come home, “Lord, your daddy spit you out! Y’all are like damn bookends.” It’s a badge I wear with pride. He’s always been who I wanted to be. A fact that took me years to understand.
As we blaze through a few more oysters, I see my son struggling to open one. I remember as a kid, shucking an oyster felt like an impossible task, but I don’t help him. I give him simple instructions: “Slow down. All you have to do is put the knife in the back and twist.”
My dad looks over to my son, then walks and stands behind him. “Here, let me show you how to do it,” Dad says.
I glance with a slightly confused and smirking look. “Man, you weren’t that nice when I was young. You gettin’ soft.” I say jokingly. My brothers all agree and chip in a few laughs as well.
Dad chuckles a little. “Aye man, I did my time. I had to be tough on y’all three.”
My hometown’s oysters have a reputation for tasting like the waters from which they’re harvested. It’s not dissimilar from parenthood. I have always been a result of my father’s decisions, and he raised me to be many things: Be tough, be a man of your word, be a hard worker, and be aware. I stretched myself, trying to be him. Now that I’m a father, I’m stretching to be closer to him. Knowing we’re all on borrowed time.
Even as we get older, Dad still has it all figured out, teaching me new ways to slow down and appreciate time when we shuck oysters together.
Recipe: How to roast oysters in the Lowcountry
An open flame is preferred for roasting. But if an open-fire roast isn’t possible, a 10-quart propane fryer or steamer setup will work. Alternatively, you can use a pellet, gas, or charcoal grill — the latter is what this how-to focuses on. Preferred music suggestions during oyster roasts: Marvin Sease, Frankie Beverly & Maze, James Brown, or Darius Rucker.
Ingredients:
1 bushel (100 or so) of local clustered oysters
Texas Pete hot sauce or cocktail sauce (optional, for serving)
Instructions:
Step 1: Remove the oysters from the bushel sack and spread them out on the ground.
Step 2: Rinse the oysters thoroughly with a hose to remove any residual pluff mud.
Step 3: Gather oyster knives (or use a butter knife or flat-head screwdriver if oyster knives aren’t available).
Step 4: Soak a potato sack or old beach towel in water — both should be thoroughly wet.
Step 5: Preheat your grill to 375°F.
Step 6: Place the cleaned oysters on the grill.
Step 7: Cover the oysters with the soaked potato sack or towel, and close the grill lid.
Step 8: Set a timer for 7 minutes.
Step 9: Once the timer goes off, check if any oysters have popped open. If they haven’t, leave them covered on the grill for a couple more minutes.
Step 10: If needed, spray the towel or sack with additional water to maintain a manageable fire.
Step 11: Once the oysters pop open, transfer them to a communal table to enjoy with hot sauce, cocktail sauce, and maybe the Clemson game for company.
Jamaal Lemon is a James Beard Award–winning writer.
Tilda Rose is a Finnish-American artist and illustrator working in editorial and children’s books.
