You can call it a happy coincidence, or the rhythm of nature's grand plan. But there is some powerful synchronicity at work here. I’m talking about peak crawfish season and the spring time full of holidays, festivals and gatherings in south Louisiana that bring us together.
The crawfish boil is practically engineered for social interaction. There’s the pace of consumption, no faster than the speed of fingers peeling tails. There’s long breaks between batches, good for catching up and refreshing those drinks. It sets a leveled playing field of sticky, spice-stained hands over a spread of newsprint.
Before a formal spring wedding, a crawfish boil may break the ice and introduce the two families. At neighborhood parties everybody convenes. It’s not the kids, the young parents and the gray hairs each in their own group; it’s everyone mashed together in shared pursuit.
The boil culture runs deep and seems to crop up everywhere this time of year. You almost can’t avoid it. It’s the steady jet engine howl of gas rings under the pot and the aroma of lemon and clove mixing with springtime jasmine vines over the neighbor’s fence. It’s the way it draws an outdoor congregation to the neighborhood bar or beer garden.
It’s just part of spring, a time when we count our region's blessings of music and art and culture before the termites swarm, the caterpillars drop and the summer heat arrives for its long residency. This is no time to take our unique regional pleasures for granted.
In life, crawfish do not get much respect. They're raked up by the ton, sold by the pound and handled about as gently as a mail sack in transit.
But, when it's time for the boil, crawfish become an object of veneration, one tied up with our appreciation for traditions and even our sense of the seasons. In other cultures and other times, they built temples and statues in praise of symbols that powerful. In Louisiana we gather some friends, grab another round and dig in.
