Of backyards and summer gatherings:

Another crawfish post? Yep—but this one’s more about the excuse to eat them.

See, each year about this time, I start day dreaming about crawfish boils. They were common throughout my childhood in Louisiana, but the last one I attended was organized in honor of my little brother’s graduation; then, our family shipped 120 pounds of live crawfish to North Carolina for the party.

That’s really what the boil is all about—a party. It’s an excuse to get together with friends, stand around a table and get our fingers dirty. Forget napkins, plates, or any sense of etiquette: this is a hands-on, chin-soaked, grab-it-before-anyone-else-does kind of meal. Rip the tail. Suck the head. Bite the claw. Anything goes.

The impetus for this weekend’s shindig came from Ryne; Tracy offered to host, and The Great Crawfish Boil of 2012 was born. We pulled nearly 80 pounds of the largest mudbugs I’ve ever seen from the Sacramento delta, asked some friends to bring corn, potatoes, onions and a few pounds of Fresno State sausage. Then we threw it all into a pot.

Also on the menu: peach cobbler, corn bread with honey butter, pickled okra, berry-vodka trifle, and an unjustifiable amount of beer. And Jameson. And Ciroc Obamas. And Hurricane Chuck—hurricanes, made with two-buck Chuck. (Okay, so it’s not just about the food.)

The soundtrack was a mix of zydeco and Southern folk music. It kept us dancing long into the night.

(Plug: I owe huge thanks to the crew at Sierra Seafood–they came through with a last-minute order for crawfish when everyone else told me they couldn’t be found.)








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