You can love crawfish, you can be obsessed with them, you can post your social media pictures of all their red shell glory until your phone dies.
But I have a firm conviction that no one ever really gets crawfish until they soak in the full experience of the do-it-yourself backyard crawfish boil.
The crawfish boil is a process that comes with practices, rituals and designated roles.
Someone must supervise the boil, someone must analyze how they’re doing it wrong, someone must set at least one live crawfish free on the grass to entertain the kids, someone must organize the peeling detail to salvage leftovers for future etouffee and bisque.
As it all unfolds, the boil also comes with a built in commandment to slow down, and we don’t need any tricky traffic cameras to remind us how valuable that is today.
Crawfish take time to cook and they take time to eat. They’re typically prepared in batches, creating an unscheduled interim.
That time is what makes a crawfish boil a social event rather than just a meal. The time invested in the process yields conversations, the general casual intimacy of talk that comes out when the pressure is off (see also: marsh fishing, quilting, baseball).
This weekend brings the high holy days of Louisiana boiled seafood. Its customs and traditions will play out in countless individualized ways that all draw from a common thread.
A family boil might be the best proving ground for this, because it gives you a fuller tableau of local life.
The crawfish boil brings everyone together, not just the college kids, or the young parents, or the gray hairs, each in their own groups. It mashes everyone together around the table, and maybe over the ice chest. The delicious pursuit of crawfish provides common cause and opens a big tent.
Crawfish are beasts. Crawfish boils can make us feel a little more human.