Pull, Squeeze, Twist, Pinch, Pop: A Louisiana Lesson - A Memoir

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.