Last weekend, my aunt and uncle stopped in. They had just been visiting my grandparents, where they were doing things such as taxes, making pizza, and ordering feasts.
It is important to note that my grandparents have spent almost all of their married lives in the DC metropolitan area. Which of course means one thing:
They love crabs.
Any homegrown boy or girl from the Bay area would feel the same. After all, what's not to love about steamed crabs crusted with Old Bay, salt, and the seasonings of the sea?
Nothing!
And how then should I feel: as a goodish, elder-respecting, born-in-the-District, Maryland-loving, free-wheeling eater?
Exactly the same way.
I love crabs. Very, very much. So much that when I turned 21, all I wanted was just to eat crabs and drink the beer I was finally entitled to. And although I didn't have a chance to do these things exactly on my birthday, I was surprised with a brown, greasy bag and a 6 pack during a visit to my grandparents soon after. Thanks, dad! I had no idea you were going to find a crab-guy when you left abruptly; I just thought you were going out for a walk.
I repeated this ritual on my 23 birthday: good friends who were (and some still are) volunteering with me at Camphill Soltane noshed on crabs, beer, hushpuppies, and laughter. We happened to be in Chincoteague Island vacationing with the lovely men and women with whom we lived. Afterwords, we went next door for a fresh, homemade ice cream cone and I got two--it was my birthday after all!
This past weekend didn't disappoint, either. My uncle brought three crabs in a cooler, covered with fresh snow (a la the 'snowmagggedon' in the Washingon area) the 300+ miles to the Raleigh area, where my family lives. I was touched that he remembered us; that he didn't just share with us the feast--she-crab soup, chowder, steamed crabs, fries, crabcakes, among other things--that took place at my grandparents house in Md. Instead, he brought us a taste of the delicious salty, soily crabs which we have been reared to love.
