The anecdote to any long week is a pot of glossy, steamed mussels dripping in garlic and wine. It's one of summers simple pleasures, and while the mussels themselves take a small amount of work to prep, they basically cook themselvesquickly in a warm bath, emerging plump and tender, ready to be spread on a piece of grilled bread.

This poem by William Carlos Williams makes no mention of mussels, but there are five words tucked in the middle of the poem, "the slovenly bearded rocks hiss—" that reminded me of the sound mussels make when they're steaming in the pot.