![]() In the ’90s in North Texas, crawfish boils weren’t as ubiquitous as they are now, and I loved that my family had a tradition that felt particularly unique. Plus, you could usually count on sneaking a sip or two of beer from a slightly tipsy adult.Īs my grandparents got older, my parents started taking over the crawfish boil hosting duties. The adults were all in a good mood, probably thanks to the copious beer supply, and the kids were allowed to run around like maniacs, as long as we didn’t interfere with the cooking process. The vibe of these crawfish boils was always unmatched. We were warned, incessantly, to not touch our eyes or go to the bathroom without first washing our hands thoroughly the mudbugs were so spicy that we’d be fighting back a runny nose while cramming them into our faces. We’d sit around the table, peeling crawfish like we were getting paid, shoveling the morsels of meat we’d just liberated into our mouths as we engaged in our most beloved family pastime: making fun of one another. When that process - which as a 7-year-old felt like an eternity - was over, the grown-ups would pour the massive aluminum strainer pot of steaming red crawfish into a row of coolers, and we’d all fight for a place in line to fill our beer flats with the bounty.īack at the table, my Granny would always try to get us to pray together before we dug in, but usually we were all too impatient. The crawfish didn’t take long to cook, but you did have to wait for them to soak in the heavily seasoned cooking liquid (alongside corn, potatoes, and maybe some andouille sausage if you were feeling fancy) to fully absorb the flavor. Shortly thereafter, we’d be shooed away from the pot for fear of getting burned, or simply getting on Papaw’s nerves. You knew things were really getting started once the scent of Louisiana Crab Boil, a potent liquid seasoning concentrate, would begin perfuming the air with its spicy cayenne aroma. Someone would inevitably source a slew of beer flats, or cardboard trays used to transport canned beverages, that we’d use as makeshift plates. My grandma would be inside preparing her famous tartar and punchy cocktail sauces, and covering her giant dining room table with old copies of the Shreveport Times to protect it from the crawfish juice. As soon as the water would start to steam, we’d begin pestering our parents about when the feast would be ready. Then the adults would set up an outdoor propane burner, fill up an enormous pot of water, and set it on to boil. (Research now shows that using salt water is not effective as a purging method, but that has not stopped the practice in my family.) As the crawfish would soak, my cousins and I would do battle in “crawfish fights,” which involved pelting one another with pissed-off, pinch-happy mudbugs. First, they’d “purge” the crawfish, which involves soaking the critters in salted water to, theoretically, remove waste material and other impurities. ![]() ![]() We’d load up the car and drive to my grandparents’ little log cabin in Louisiana, where my grandfather and uncle would spend hours preparing for the boil. When I was a kid, the annual family crawfish boil was a major event, even after I’d moved to Texas. Conveniently, late April or May is the perfect time for families all across the South to get outside, invite their family and friends to their backyard, and host a crawfish boil. ![]() But for me, and many people in my home state of Louisiana, that distinction is reserved for something else entirely: crawfish season.īeginning in November, crawfish season typically peaks in the late spring, as the tiny freshwater crustaceans grow into full maturity. Some people think of those weeks just before Christmas, when the lights are twinkling and Bing Crosby is inescapable, as the most wonderful time of the year. ![]()
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