Don't Let That Crab Goose You!

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Your great grandmother Mary grew up in Houston, Texas.  She spent her youthful vacations on the Gulf coast near Galveston where she learned to enjoy seafood, particularly crabs. One of the greatest anticipations for our family in our annual treks to Albejose was how she turned the hoards of crabs we caught into her most amazing gumbo, deviled crab and savory cakes. 

As I told you earlier, Albejose’s dining room featured a huge round table with an oversized lazy Susan in the middle.  Many an afternoon, we sat around that table with a big bowl of cooked crab bodies and claws in the center.  We picked crab meat almost until our fingers bled.  Great granddaddy Schaefer always had a bowl of drawn butter handy to dip every third morsel or so and eat it right on the spot. 

During our beach trip the summer before I turned thirteen, mom and I decided that we would go crabbing - just the two of us.  This was quite a shocking feminist statement for the times.  Who would put those nasty fish heads on the hooks?  Who would net the crabs?  Who would put a foot down on the little scampers that prematurely flipped out of the net and raced sideways to the edge of the dock?  Who would endure a pinched finger when the crab went from underfoot to the bucket?  Well, we would!

On the chosen morning, mom checked the paper tide chart stuck to the kitchen wall with thumbtacks.   We wanted to start with the tide coming in and stop as it headed back out.  Dad did help us load the car with the net, lines and big metal bucket for stowing our catch.  We drove off with great pride and self-confidence.

The best crabbing spots were around fish houses.  Small communities dotted the banks of The Little River in South Carolina where shrimpers and commercial fishers lived and worked.  From multiple inlets they easily accessed the ocean and returned to the fish houses with their bounty.  There, the catch was cleaned and iced with all the heads, guts and carcasses dumped into the river.  Below each fish house lay a gastronomic heaven for crabs.

One such place sat next to the Little River bridge on the highway into Ocean Drive.  Over the years, we developed a friendship with the owner who let us use his docks.  Mom and I pulled into the parking lot, went inside to get some flounder heads and confirm that it was okay for us to be there that morning.  Given the green light, we unloaded the car, rigged the lines and dropped them down to the water…maybe an hour before high tide.

The result was instantaneous - every line, every time, the unmistakable tug of the crab, or maybe several fighting over the fish head.  Mom pulled in the lines, I netted.  The tide came in and began to recede.  The crabs kept tugging.  Six hours later, at complete low tide, they showed no signs of stopping.  The five-foot tidal swing complicated my netting technique.  In order to reach the water below with a fully extended net, I had to lie on my stomach, hanging over the dock, with mom sitting on me to keep me from falling in.

The tide began to rise again.  We had been at it for almost nine hours.  Even though the crabs still jerked at the lines, it was time to stop.  Sunburn marked the edges of our clothes.  My arms, back and legs ached from netting.  Our bucket was so heavy with.

crabs, we had to get the fish house owner to put it in the trunk of the car for us. 

Our return to Albejose could not have been more triumphant.  We drove into the carport, much to dad’s relief who thought something bad had happened to us.  The expressions on our faces signaled otherwise.  What an immortal moment of pride when he opened the trunk and gaped at our hard earned catch!

We transported the bucket up the back steps to the kitchen where mom dispatched every big pot she could find to the stove.  Once the water started to boil on every eye, dad began the ritual of grabbing the crabs with long-handled tongs and dropping them in the bubbling liquid.  Sometimes his grip brought up a string of multiple bodies and pinchers desperately clinging to each other as if life depended on it….which it did.  The trick was to get the entire string to a pot without losing anybody.  Inevitably, the tail-end crab would fall to the floor creating quite a ruckus. 

Dad always created additional uproar as well.  Once mom absorbed herself over the roiling pots on the stove, he signaled to us children to watch what was coming.  He sneaked up behind her as she held her pose and goosed her with the tongs, sending her at least two feet off the floor.  Our squeals of laughter must echo from that kitchen today…..if Albejose is still around.