Dave considered declining, then turned to me and asked, “Want to go to a crawfish boil?”
The invite came from two doors down. A friend of theirs—who owns a 500-acre property just eight minutes away—was throwing a party. Maybe it was their way of reciprocating after politely declining our offer for their daughter to come swim. Either way, we were in.
I love crawfish. Crustaceans, especially king and Dungeness crab, make me drool. Crawfish tail meat has a similar flavor, but it’s teeny—like pinky-sized—and doesn’t quite compare to their oceanic cousins, the real sidewalkers of the sea.
Before I go on, I’ve meant to mention Evelyn’s motion light-up shoe. Since my parents visited a few weeks ago, it’s been stuck in blink mode. Every time I forget about it for a few days, then see it still flashing, I’m in shock. What kind of batteries are in there? As of today, it’s still going strong.
Anyway, I’m really full. I had somewhere between 30 and 40 crawfish—lifted the shell like a car hood and sucked the meat and juices right out. Then I’d twist the tail off, biting or tearing it open to try and pull the meat out in one clean swoop. Fingers or mouth—whatever worked.
It’s a messy meal, the way I do it. Which reminds me—I need to hit those greasy spatters with some OxiClean paste.
I think this might be my favorite time of year. With all the bedroom windows open and the ceiling fan resolving its internal drama about twenty times in five seconds, the breeze is just right—cool, fresh, and constant. My ideal air type.
Tomorrow is Lizzie’s birthday. She’s having it at a skating rink starting at 9 a.m., so we’ll need to be out the door by 8:30. It’s in the same town as the Warner Robins Air Force Base.
I didn’t have a fun fact prepared for this post, but one found me anyway. The land where we had the crawfish boil? It turns out the Creek people settled there before they were forcibly displaced along the Trail of Tears. There are artifacts scattered across the property—”an entire field of arrowheads,” the ownerer said.
Oh—and I can’t forget this gem from the party:
One woman was wearing a pair of striking earrings she’d found at a boutique—long, metallic, and curved. She told us they were cast from molds of real animal bone. Neither Dave nor I could guess which animal. The thin, three-inch piece of metal curved gently at the end, like a delicate hook.
“It’s a raccoon’s penis,” she told us with a grin.
I later overheard others guessing too. Some nailed it on the first try—we were, after all, surrounded by hunters and wildlife feed salesmen. One of them called out, “It’s a coon’s cock!”—a bit less refined.
She said her husband was appalled when she bought them and told her not to wear them. She looked at us, winked, and said, “I did it anyway.”
Alrighty then! That’s all for tonight. Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 