Food is life. It is essence; it is existence, and – for some
– it is identity. Nothing says Louisiana like Cajun cuisine – the smell of the
vinegar and spice that pierces the atmosphere around Cajun home-cooking.
Nothing says Cajun like a burning, bursting, bright crawfish boil; and every
year my family hosts a get-together for Louisiana friends and curious/converted
Missourians to enjoy an early May Saturday of Cajun delicacy.
Here in the
Midwest, it’s difficult for people to adjust to seeing mounds of bright little
red bodies piled on top of newspaper simply seeping with spicy crawfish juice.
For me, it is difficult to imagine life without them. My dad has always been a
big fan of boiling crawfish – he always does it himself, his oar-like steel
paddle wielded like a legendary weapon of choice. The enormous round vat atop
the blue flames of the rusty metal of the propane burner gleams as hungrily as
our smiles on the morning of the crawfish boil. Packages of Zataran’s crawfish
boil lay on the prep table ready to use in a moment’s notice when the bubbles
start to rise, and newspapers are gathered to lay atop a table under the awning
in the expanse back yard, shaded as much as the surrounding hickory trees will
allow.
When they
arrive, the crawfish are alive but dormant – their red netting pressing their
shells tight against one another in their ice and Styrofoam prison, shipped
directly from New Orleans to St. Louis overnight. Running the cool water from
the hose over the shells allows floods of oxygen into their gills. “The water,”
my dad explained when I was young, “can’t be stagnant or they will drown.” In
this compact state, the crawfish are very delicate and death-prone until their
brief release into the rinsing buckets.
Rubbermaids
are freed for crawfish baths, to wash away the dirt and grime from their muddy
mounds. In Louisiana their sanctuaries were ear-marked by thousands of dirt
mounds, often dry and smooth in the sunlight. The piles of mud could be
collected for an imaginative child’s pies and – in dry weather – cloud the air
with dust under the blades of a lawn mower. Their muddy fields from which they
were harvested leave a residue that must be washed away with the excrement from
their journey. Once the dark blood-red crustaceans are in the water-filled
containers, we watch closely for signs of life – and death.
Awakened by
sudden freedom and relative warmth away from their ice-packed case, the
crawfish begin to slowly move, their exoskeletons clattering quietly in their
struggle to assess the change of environment. The casualties of the journey are
tossed aside into the grass – to be retrieved for the banquet if any signs of
life arise.
So often I
watched my dad repeat the rinsing process. The red netting held taunt over the
side of the Rubbermaid and a jumble of crawfish collide in a cacophony of water
rushing to the grass beneath and a clatter of shells. The Rubbermaid is filled
again and again. Rinse. And Repeat.
While the
boiling bath threatens never to bubble, inside delicacies cause a distinctive
and new set of aromas and delights. Into my blue mixing bowl go the three key
ingredients to accompany the spicy crawfish sensation: vinegar, tabasco sauce,
and mayonnaise. Mixing to taste, usually my concoction is strong and spicy
sweet – perfectly adjusted to the heat I know my dad will apply to the
succulent shellfish outside.
Then there
is spice – spice that can only come from that gleaming steel cauldron. The
smell of Zataran’s fills the air and mingles with the steam from the boiling
water, pushing it through the air and cleansing all other aromas from the
atmosphere. There are many different kinds of spice: rich, steaming suffocating
spice; thick, bold and exotic spice; and light, airy spice that merely tickles
your nose. This spice is strong, cleansing, aromatic spice that is meant to be
inhaled – absorbed through every pore – and then is gone.
Boiling
eighty pounds of crawfish takes about four batches of work for my dad, but it
is truly worth every hour of waiting and preparation to see each new batch a
steaming heap of bright red shells piled high on newsprint-covered tables and
revealing the intermingled corn cobs and new potatoes. Dollops of my special
sauce are squirted right onto the newsprint beside the pile of bright bodies
and the whole crew – or those brave enough in this Heartland wasteland – gather
around the table and roll their sleeves up past their elbows. The first few to
reach into the mound pluck the biggest of the lot onto the spot in front of
them and attempt to avoid steam burns as the spice rises into eager faces. Then
then magic: pull, squeeze, pinch, twist, pop.
Peeling a
crawfish can be intimidating to anyone who hasn’t grown up around it. To some
people it’s just plain freaky. To me, it is a natural and amazing part of the
crawfish experience. For those new to the Cajun scene, it’s a fairly
complicated instruction. Pull, squeeze, pinch, twist, and pop. Pull off the
head and squeeze the sides of the tail to break the spine. Twist off the first
two rings or segmented portions of the tail. If the meat is good, this will
reveal the largest part of the tail meat. Pinch the base of the tail and pull
out the meat. Pop it in your mouth…Enjoy!
For a
newbie to the crawfish realm, peeling the crawfish takes practice – a lot of practice. I proudly peel faster
than anyone in my family, but this comes with a price. Peeling several crawfish
a minute often leaves my thumbs less than perfect. Not painfully so, but
noticeably enough. After a day of crawfish eating my thumbs are missing tiny
bits of skin from the upper layers and wrinkled from hours of exposure to heat,
steam, and spices.
There is
always one we forget to warn. Seasoned crawfish eaters know to toss out
straight tailed crustaceans for the birds. Even curled tails can taste muddy
and unsatisfying, but newbies never know. A straight tail indicates that the
crawfish died before it was boiled – never a good thing for shellfish. The meat
tastes muddy and bad, if it stays in one piece through the peeling process. The
tightly curled tales of the crawfish almost guarantee satisfaction.
Crawfish
boils are easily my favorite meal-time. Since I don’t usually eat much at a
time, I eat constantly. The all-day meal that crawfish provides is perfect for
me metabolically. Coming and going from the table, batch after batch of fresh
shellfish, and ever-increasing spice are all what makes this feast heaven to
me. The mountains of steaming deliciousness stir conversation, bonding, and
lots of laughter. Curious and timid around the strangely staring delicacies,
the young girls will wrinkle their noses and ask me to peel “just one.” “Just
one” often becomes “just twenty.” The boys snatch a cooked – or even a live –
crawfish from the bunch and threaten their companions and parents with the
grisly-looking crayfish. The looks on their faces taking me back to my own
excursions with the delicious mini-monsters. Peering into the tub of wriggling
tasties I plunged a twig into their midsts until a challenged crawfish snapped
onto it with its ferocious-looking pinchers. Dragging the crawfish to my own
private party, I’d poke, prod, and play until it was time for the final batch.
Then my new-found friend joined the others on the table-top mound.
Enjoying my
favorite meal, nothing fits better with my crawfish and special sauce than a
tall glass of milk. Every Louisiana crawfish-eater knows better than to drink
anything carbonated. Rarely, a newbie will approach the table, Coca-Cola in
hand and, when the spice intensifies, reaches for their drink only to find the
burning sensation doubled or tripled due to the bubbles. Milk satisfies, fills,
and quenches the spice without overpowering it. Water’s effect doesn’t last as
long, but it will do in a pinch.
Four
batches after the first pile, the spice exponentially increases. The potatoes
are the most intensely spicy with the corn following close behind, but the
crawfish only get better as more and more spice is added to the steaming
cauldron where my dad cooks up this magic. Every new batch clatters to the
table in a steaming symphony of aroma that billows out as the red shells hit
the table.
At the end
of the day, fifteen pounds of crawfish have satisfied me, and the clean-up
begins. Usually, this involves peeling, packaging, and freezing the remainder
of the crawfish tails as well as some half-hearted munching long after stomachs
are filled. The newspaper is rolled up into a messy roll of spice, sauce, and
smeared headlines and tossed in the nearest garbage can. The awning comes down
just as the sun sets and the table is folded and put away. We wave good-bye to
family and friends, newly converted Missourians and well-satisfied Cajun
companions. The sun rolls the rest of the world into tomorrow and the day is
washed away with the juice that streaked up to our elbows and stained our
shirts.
