Knock knock

(Who's there?)

Orange

(Orange who?)

Jack has like five shirts that he likes to wear.  This is NOT one of them, but he wore it the other day.

Orange you glad he wore a different shirt?

We sure were.

Kudos to Mr. R for getting Jack to wear something other than the Cubs shirt, the Saints shirt, the LSU shirt, or the Superhero shirt.  (Related:  I need to get Jack some Bates, Orioles, American University, and Chesapeake Bay stuff, STAT.  This kid's gotta represent.)

Hope you do something outside of the box today.

Talk soon,
Heather

Zen and the art of crab eating

Every Father's Day, we had a crab feast.  

Granddad would drive to Rock Hall early in the morning to get a bushel of Number Ones.  We would all go to the house in Worton and sit in the shade of the huge evergreen trees in the backyard.  It was the only time I remember using the back door of my grandparents' house, and it felt special.

The picnic table was covered in several weeks' worth of the Kent County News and the Cecil Whig.  There was a fancy dancy crab mallet holder in the center of the table.  It even had a spot for the roll of paper towels, which is imperative.  The grown ups drank beer.  I have no idea what I drank.  Probably ginger ale.

We would eat crabs until we were full.  But you know, that's pretty hard with crabs.  So, I'll say that we all ate crabs until we were tired of picking them, tired of washing our hands when we had to get anything other than a crab, etc.  Tired of Old Bay getting into the increasing number of nicks and cuts on our fingers, because crabs, well, they get you.  Even when you're from Maryland, born and raised.

Granddad didn't ever get full of crab.  The rest of us would have cashed in long ago, washed our hands, gotten something fresh to drink, shaken off all of the Old Bay crumbs that had accumulated everywhere, and come back outside to hang out.  Granddad just kept going.

He was methodical.  He opened every single leg, even the ones that usually "aren't worth it" to me.  He got every single piece of meat out of every crab.  He enjoyed it.  It was sort of Zen to watch him eat crabs, now that I think about it.  He wasn't fast.  It was not gluttony.  It was thorough, measured, enjoyment.  

At some point Mom and Grandmom would give in to the realization that they had to pick the rest of the crabs, so that someone could use the crabmeat.  Someone had to make soup or crabcakes or something, and you know ... "those crabs don't pick themselves!"  Someone would always say.

* * * 

This year for Father's Day, Durel, Jack, and I were in Houston.  PapaDu and Dustin drove to Kema in the morning to get crabs.  Then, the Bernard men boiled them with seasoning and "groceries" (sausage, garlic, celery, mushrooms, pure deliciousness) in the driveway.  Then, we put our own spin on the Father's Day tradition and ate them.  

They're going to hate me for posting this.
But it was so awesome.
D, I kept it small.  Does that help?

It's a little different.  Plastic on the tables instead of newspaper.  Shrimp in addition to crab.  Groceries in addition to just crabs.  (I love that, maybe the most.)  A new backyard.  A new tree (or lack thereof) to sit under.  A new back door to use.

And a new person to partake.

Jack did not pass Go.  He did not collect $200.  He sat down and started eating some serious crab.  As fast as Donna and I could pick it, he would eat it.  He easily ate 4 or 5 crabs' worth of meat.  And that's really saying something.

Granddad was so proud.  I could feel it.

Hope you feel some love from above today.

Talk soon,
Heather

ass kickin' chickens

I've waxed philosophical in the past that Jack was born a Texan.  He will intrinsically know what happened at the Alamo, what "perfect" nachos are, and the difference between a good and a bad tortilla.  

And while that knowledge is great, I feel obliged to represent the Mid-Atlantic region in his upbringing.

I won't teach him to pronounce water as if it were spelled "wooder."

I will teach him to love DC and Philadelphia.  And to respect Baltimore.  (Charm City, if you come out of your crime tailspin, I will reevaluate.)

I will teach him to parallel park.  That shit is important.

And, I will teach him to respect the likes of the Maryland Terrapin and the Delaware Blue Hen.

See?  I've already started.

Thanks, Uncle James and Aunt Jenny!

Because it is cool to root for, as we say, an ass kickin' chicken.  From the First State.  You know?

Hope your day has some aggressive poultry in it.

Talk soon,

Heather

crab cakes

The other day, Jack demanded a tortilla with his dinner.

Two and a half year olds are demanding.  This is not a newsflash.  Jack likes to eat.  Also not a newsflash.  So, the demand for a tortilla was totally not a problem.  And, I confess that as an assimilated Texan, I find that a flour tortilla complements almost any meal.  

I obligingly heated one up for him.

He promptly rejected it.

Why?  Because it was not as good as the last one he'd had.  Which was at a Mexican restaurant.

Fair enough.  He resumed eating dinner and I tweeted something about how you know your child is a Texan when they demand a tortilla for dinner.  And that you know they're two when they then refuse to eat it.  I crack myself up sometimes.

And then I thought, holy crap.  He's a Texan.  He was born here.  This is home.  His frame of reference will always include knowing the difference between a good tortilla and a shitty one.  That's nuts.

And then I thought, HE WON'T KNOW ABOUT CRAB CAKES.

In case you're new here, I grew up on the completely idyllic and often very backward Eastern Shore of Maryland.  Its dearth of urbanity is made up for by its wealth of fresh seafood from the Chesapeake Bay.  Crabs are The Thing.  Crabs rule.  

Not even kidding.  This is Chestertown.  [image credit]

It goes without saying that I don't eat crab cakes in Texas.  Because I know the difference between a good crab cake and a shitty one, and in Texas, they are all shitty.  THEY ARE ALL SHITTY BECAUSE THEY ADD BREAD.  Crabs are expensive, I get it.  And you can put all the breadcrumbs and stuff you want into your crabcakes, but they're shitty and I won't eat them.  

Ahem.  Where was I?

Right, crab cakes.

I know that I can make him crab cakes and teach him.  I know that we'll visit Maryland and I'll force encourage him to try them.  I get it.  This is not, shall we say, an insurmountable obstacle.  But the forceful part of the realization for me is that his little postmodern self is being formed here.  Crabs will be a stretch.  Tortillas will not.  He is my child, and will always be my baby, but he's different than me.  And that's trippy and scary and miraculous and awesome.

You know you're from Maryland when a crab cake makes you this philosophical.

Hope your crab cakes are bread free and your epiphanies are awesome today.

Talk soon,

Heather