Crawfish.
This weekend two couple friends and I had a crawfish (Crawdaddy? Crayfish? Crawdads? Mud bugs?) boil.
It required not using a fork and knife to eat.
Gasp!
This is completely out of my comfort zone. I also felt really bad for the crawfish. One husband put one on his ear like an earring. One dog had a great time trying to figure out what was going on.
One dog just wanted to eat it.
So did another one.
There was a lot to eat. It was too cold to eat outside like the real tradition, so we improvised.
A part of my heritage (I found out late in life) is Acadia, people expelled from Northeast Canada (mostly). Some of those people headed to Louisiana. Some came back to the Northeast. But I know next to nothing about this culture and the food and the traditions behind it. Same for my Dutch side and Québécois ancestors. It’s all a bit of a mystery to me, just like crawfish kind of are. And hushpuppies.
THE SOUP
This soup is from a website I just found. I will hopefully make it soon! Without the ham. :)
The website is adorable though. You should check it out if you have time! It’s a lovely woman named Sophie and her culinary adventures.
POEMS
The Poetry Foundation has a recording of “Some Lines Scrawled on the Door of a Vagabond's House,” by Don Blanding, which is quite full of energy.
This is SUGARING from the July 1920 issue of POETRY. It’s by Raymond Holden.
