Hot crabs and cold lemonade: A window into my Cajun childhood

It’s summer in New York, and hot, steamy air closes in around me even in the evenings. Not a time to think of large pots of water boiling on a stove. But I do. Summer takes me back to the near-tropically humid nights of my 1950s youth in Louisiana’s Cajun country. I remember sitting immobile before the sluggish gusts of an oscillating fan, the saturated air pressing down on my body. The sun’s setting had brought little relief, only a clammy listlessness.

Except on Friday nights. On Fridays my family and I thumbed our noses at the humidity and sat down to a spirited supper of spicy boiled crabs, the peppered vapor from the boiling pot fusing with the sultry air.

Friday was the night for crabs. My mother knew they satisfied the appetites of her five growing sons, and that my father found nothing more relaxing than hammering away the week’s aggravations on his favorite seafood.  

Cajuns ordinarily boil crabs outdoors, but not my mother. Reasoning that a few more degrees of heat wouldn’t make much of a difference, she brought the outdoors inside.   

Late Friday afternoon she set the water to boil in two old large pots, and threw in rock salt, chunks of lemon, green peppers, onions, celery ribs, and cayenne pepper. Using sturdy kitchen tongs, she lifted live Blue Point crabs fresh from the Gulf from a wooden basket at her feet and dropped them into the water in an intricate pattern to get as many into the pot as possible. She added small red potatoes.

Invariably, a bold crab made a sideways run for it, leaping from the basket and heading for open sea. But it never got far. She always apprehended escapees.

While my mother watched over the pots, an invisible cloud of peppery steam filled the house, tickling our noses and bringing on a happy sneeze or two. My brothers and I hurriedly laid out layers of newspaper on the dining table, placed rolls of paper towels at each end, and left a single table knife at each place setting. My family, like most Cajuns, used only one knife to open the crabs, not the mallets and nutcrackers Northerners might use.  

As the last crabs turned from blue-gray to fire red, my mother called out final instructions. One brother would mix small bowls of mayonnaise and ketchup, a sweet concoction in which to dip the spicy potatoes, while another brother set out baguettes of crusty French bread and a pitcher of lemonade. My father would grab a cold drink from the ancient refrigerator on our screened-in back porch. When everything was ready, we helped my mother carry round trays piled precariously high with crabs to the table.  

We sat down at our oval table, my father at the head, my mother to his left, my youngest brother next to her, then me, my left-handed older brother at the table’s foot, my second-to-youngest brother following the table’s turn, and my oldest brother completing the circle. It was a hard-and-fast seating arrangement. We bowed our heads, gave thanks for the bounty of the Gulf of Mexico and for my mother’s hard work, and then, ravenous, selected our first crabs to tackle.

My parents had taught me how to peel my own crabs at a young age. Peeling crabs for another person automatically qualifies a person for sainthood. My parents were saints, but they had their limits.

It isn’t difficult: Twist off the claws, hammer them open, extract the meat, pop it into your mouth, savor. Twist off the legs, separate the top shell from the bottom at the small tab under the crab, scoop the rich brown fat from inside the top shell’s corners, savor. Break the bottom shell in two, dig the white crabmeat from the honeycombed chambers with your fingers, then throw the emptied shell into a pile in front of you. Simple.

As delicious as the crabs were, the freewheeling family discussion circling the table made the evening even more special. As we thumped and cracked, we discussed current events, sought advice, speculated on life, listened to my parents’ stories of their own childhoods, debated politics. Arguments might erupt, but mostly we tried to best one another with humor. My family prized quick comebacks, funny ideas, irony, and bad puns. A deep groan was appreciated as much as a hearty laugh.

The meal did not end but casually petered out. I knew I was done not because I felt full but because I was tired of peeling crabs and had built a large pile of shells in front of me. I asked to be excused and thanked my mother. I washed the pungent crab smell off my hands and changed my shirt. My parents were the last to leave the table, my father continuing to pound away on the crabs while my mother kept him company. When they finished eating, my brothers and I returned to help clean up.

My mother stopped boiling crabs after my brothers and I left home and my father passed away. When I visited her, we went out for crabs at a seafood restaurant in my hometown. But it wasn’t the same. Restaurants had introduced stainless steel tables with holes in their centers where you would throw crab shells, and they even offered mallets and nutcrackers.  

It was all sanitized and genteel. The casualness of home, free from polite table manners, was missing. The seasonings didn’t seem right. Without a pile of crab shells in front of me, I felt I had not accomplished anything.  

I missed the intimacy of sitting around our dining table piled high with steaming crabs boiled by my mother. I missed the homemade sauces, the crusty French bread, the expected seating arrangement. I missed the easy family banter. While we had been boiling in the Louisiana heat on those treasured Friday nights, the peppered family humor had brought smiles and laughter and tested our mental agility. And, for a little while, the sweltering summer air had seemed cooler.