After our two-year courtship, a whirlwind wedding, and the beginning of our life together, my new wife and I decided to take a vacation from Oklahoma and all my semi-capable abilities. Wanting to get away, but not too far, I took my wife (and don’t forget Sean, natch) to see her kin down in bayou country, right around Lafayette, Louisiana.
As part of our Cajun cause of matrimonial celebration, we were invited to her extended family’s home, as part of the yearly reunion where three things were always guaranteed: family, friends, and the best crawfish boil you have ever seen.
But, to be fair, I had never been to a crawfish cookout.
Thankfully, people I had never heard of welcomed me with ten legs and two pinchers, bringing me into the fold of this boisterous, fun-loving, and wholly diverse community. From the kids playing with the live crawdads swimming in the tubs to the young guys manning the boiling pots, there was always something to get this party started.
Walking up to the filled tubs of hundreds—thousands—of crawfish teeming in the clean water, to be fair, at first it was pretty disturbing, like a garish horror sequence. But, confronted by all the snippy claws and my snapping fears about them, I remembered the time when I ate a slimy eyeball of a goat during a barbecue a few years ago, and, silently, I was in total peace.
As the kids were playing with the crustaceans like mobile action figures with spring lock action, next to us, a couple of guys were filling the pots, getting them ready to boil. With their sleek bodies being ceremoniously dumped into the extremely hot water, their tiny muffled screams gave way to the seasoning lemon in the brew.
The scent, I have to say, was more than mesmerizing…
Customarily drooling over the potatoes, corn, and sausages that were on the boil, I noticed that Sean made a pack of dog friends, running around and chasing each other around the lush countryside. With no fear, one of the canines began playing with a dying crawdad that had escaped, with Sean following behind, definitely cautious but completely intrigued.
Before the meal was set to begin, the extended family had some kind words of remembrance for a dearly departed member, and, even though I didn’t know him, a well of tears began behind my eyes. Though I didn’t say it, with his respectful remembrance, I was reminded of my own years of intense strokes and other cerebral traumas and how, somewhat, I had come out on the other side.
As the familial tears slowly subsided, it was time for what I had been waiting for—something that everyone had been waiting for—a share of this bountiful, beautiful crawfish.
In a real bonding moment, my new father-in-law, a seasoned Cajun storyteller, began teaching me the ins and outs of deshelling the bulbous crustaceans. Filling a cardboard box lid with the steaming crawfish, he gave me a crash course, from snapping the necks, sucking on their heads and scraping out the meat, one at a time.
Sure, it was an arduous workload, but it had big payoffs as I dipped the tail meat in this strange creamy sauce someone had made. With the potatoes, corn, and sausage at the ready, though I only had one box full of boiled delights, other people were on boxes three or four. But still, I felt like a true champion.
I even had to unbutton my jeans as my food digested, giving me a little breathing room.
For my first trip to the state of Louisiana, I not only discovered an out-of-area food that I would never have had but a whole new family that, I think, really liked Sean and me. So, whether you’re born on the bayou or a simple kid from Oklahoma, it really takes all kinds to make the world, doesn’t it?
And mine got a little bigger last weekend.
-
Follow Louis Fowler on Instagram at @louisfowler78.
