A beheaded octopus drying in the Greek sun.
I can’t remember ever having eaten dried octopus, but I’m not saying I wouldn’t. There they were, looking festive, a row of fresh ones dangling decoratively from a boat’s rigging, like signal flags spelling out a message for dinner.
In Mykonos recently, on a long stroll along the shore, I saw these plump babies strung up, baking in the Greek sun. They had clearly protested their ignoble attachment to a laundry line, given that more than a few had clutched a lifeline with defiant fists.
A boat flies signal flags that spell out dinner.
Octoperson
The sticky-fingered cephalopods had received the ultimate capital punishment—beheading—and for what? Stealing bait? Like a lowlife pickpocket going for our prop wallets, except we throw them back.
Maybe they weren’t destined for food, I don’t know. I’m not one to look at tentacles and think mmm, succulent. There was no one to ask.
Me, I’d put light bulbs in them.
Lightbulbs, not a bad idea. It would make an interesting table light with ambiance. Don’t you have a bladder lamp?
What a memory that story invoked. In ’73 visiting Greece, we were on the dock in Sounion, where we saw a fisherman turn an octopus inside out and then beat it vigorously on the dock for several minutes. An hour later, we had it for lunch. Mmmmm. Yummy