Posts Tagged ‘meal’
Crab Cakes: Sweet Reward
My Michigan-raised father liked meat. But he loved seafood. Scallops, shrimp and crabs were his favorites.
Scallops were expensive, even in seafood-rich southern Virginia. We didn’t have them often and cooking them took finesse. The key was heat, using a pan lightly oiled with butter to sear the scallop top and bottom without overcooking the interior. Properly done, the reward was a delicious jewel from the sea.
Fish was another story. For reasons I never understood, my mother could not cook fish well. Her efforts produced a sharp fishy taste and aroma that appalled my father, my siblings and me. She often ended up eating it by herself while the rest of my family scoured the cupboards for mac and cheese or dinners from the freezer. That awful smell lingered in my memory. Only years later, photographing a story in Alaska, did I work up my courage to try fish again when I discovered the wonder of salmon.
But crabs were something we all agreed on. Despite living in the suburbs, my parents did their share of hunting and gathering. They loved fishing—fighting a hapless creature at the end of a line. Crabbing, though, was a family pastime. Our favorite hunting ground was below a bridge where water from the Chesapeake flowed inland. My parents would buy a bag of chicken necks. They’d tie one to a string and toss it out into the water. Wearing old gym shoes—the crabs could draw blood with their pinchers—I would wade knee-deep into the water, holding onto the string. When I’d feel a tug, I’d slowly pull in the string, being careful not to dislodge the large crab hanging onto the chicken neck. Avoiding the clicking pinchers, my mother or father would pull the crab loose, and throw it into a perforated plastic laundry basket they kept submerged in water. That kept the crabs alive until we had a full basket.
Like lobsters, crabs had to be steamed alive to preserve the sweetness of their meat. My younger brother took this to an extreme. He’d crack the crab’s shell open and rinse out the guts, then throw the mangled body into the steam pot, it’s legs still kicking. He said this had to be done quickly before the crab even knew it was dead. “The only way to get really sweet crab meat,” he claimed. His approach horrified me, but I did eat the results. Yes, it was very sweet, but I suggested he never do that again.
Steaming crabs was always a happy occasion for my family. It was one of the few times we came together to gather food and share a satisfying meal. Everyone contributed, working together to bring in a successful catch. My parents would lay the steamed crabs out on newspapers. My siblings and I would break them open with nut crackers, then use scissors and picks to pluck out the tasty chunks. Eating was a long process, accompanied with steamed corn and cold drinks. One of my uncles, visiting from Michigan, found them disgusting. “Why are you eating insects?” he asked when we took him crabbing. He watched, exasperated, as we munched contentedly on the bushel we’d caught and steamed.
Mealtime was always a guessing game at our house. Would it go well or would dishes be thrown against the wall? I never knew what triggered my father’s violent behavior, but I am certain my mother played a major role. Often, she blamed me or my siblings. But after the dust settled, and I talk to my father, he would just say,” Sometimes your mother pushes me too far.” For a man who spent his entire career in the military, he seemed to have few of the skills needed to be avoid conflict. Disagreements often flared into arguments. Meals could be a battleground for the two mismatched people fate had made my parents.
When dinner went well, my father would tell stories of his childhood. He spent summers on his grandfather’s farm in Pentwater, Michigan, playing with his two siblings, Bill, and Lorraine. He told about growing up in Chicago where his father, a Republican, ran a bar and worked at the stockyards. Not to be out done, my mother would counter with her own stories about growing up during the war in Japan and how living in a small fishing village saved their lives, since the village was too small for the enemy to notice. The village fishermen brought back food every day, so her family experienced less hardship than many in wartime Japan. Dinner accompanied by stories were the good times. I ate those stories up. They nourished me more than the food on my plate.
But on other days, a dark cloud hung over the table. I could sense the storm before it happened, my flight response on high alert. Triggered by something I never saw, my mother would set upon my father with constant nagging and criticism. Finally, he couldn’t handle any more and he’d throw his dish against the wall or turn over a table. As my parents screamed at each other I and my siblings would scatter.
Away from my turbulent family, eating crab was always a pleasant experience. As a young adult, working for the Virginian-Pilot newspaper, I’d join other staffers on Friday nights at a beach bar called Ocean Eddies. Steamed crabs piled high on brown paper spread over a rough wooden table. We’d down frozen margaritas served in plastic cups. Ocean Eddies perched on an old pier and looking down between the loose floor slates, we could see surging waves. After I Ieft the paper, storms washed away much of the pier, carrying Ocean Eddies away. Both pier and Ocean Eddies have been rebuilt, but I never returned, wanting to keep intact my memories of a simpler time.
Eating steamed crabs is now a rare luxury for me. My husband is not a fan of picking through their shells to get to the meat, an activity I find relaxing. And sadly, Chesapeake Bay has been over crabbed. Over the past twenty years the once abundant crab population has been threatened several times. Competition got so bad that at one point Maryland and Virginia crabbers threatened to shoot each other for crossing the state line running through the Bay. With fewer numbers, crabs cost more. As a child, I could pick them out of the water without a chicken neck. Now, a dozen jumbo jimmies—male crabs—can cost close to two hundred dollars. Even a pint of picked crabmeat costs anywhere from 45 to 60 dollars. Yet, when I really want the taste of crab, I’ll spend the money. I might make crab cakes, or to keep things simple, Crab Norfolk. That’s a simple three-ingredient dish of lump crab, vinegar, and butter (please use real butter). Mix all three together and warm over low heat. Sprinkle on smoked paprika. Eat it with chips or warm slices of a baguette. I suck up the meat like an addict.
This recipe was given to me by a friend who got it from a photographer who finally became well known later in his life as a chronicler of Baltimore area, thanks to a Washington Post magazine article. I’m not sure where it originated but I love that it’s not fried like so many other crab cake recipes and that it’s mostly crab with just a little bit of filler to hold the meat together while it broils to perfection. Apparently, these cakes were also called “Gertie’s Crab Cakes.” My friend served it with a side of Ken’s Thousand Island Dressing.
Warren’s crab cakes:
1 egg
2 TBSP. mayonnaise
1 tsp. dry mustard
1 tsp Old Bay seasoning (I am NOT fond of Old Bay so I only use about 1/4 tsp
2 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
Dash of tabasco sauce (I use several)
1 lb. lump crab
1/4 cup cracker (or finely ground bread) crumbs
Combine egg, mayo, mustard, pepper, Old Bay, Worcestershire, and tabasco sauce in a bowl and mix until frothy.
Put crab meat in the bowl and pour mix over it. Gently mix in cracker crumbs, coating all with egg mix but taking care not to break up lumps of crab.
Form crab cakes by hand into mounded balls and put on a greased baking sheet. There’s not much to hold them together, but that’s the challenge.
Put in a broiler (not too close to the flame – you need to give the crab time to cook) Broil until golden brown. Serve at once. I would recommend 1 1/2 – 2lbs of crab meat for 4 people if that is the main course.
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