Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen: Soft Shell Crab

If you've never seen one, soft shell crabs are all blue and spidery, and I wasn't entirely convinced that they were dead. 

"Are you sure that one's not just old and sleepy?" I asked the man at the seafood counter.

He gave me a look, but I couldn't tell if I was the weird one or if he was trying to cover up his guilt.

A nice, warm bath would be just right for these old freaky claws of mine, those crabs were probably thinking as they tried to get comfortable on their bed of ice.

They never saw the hot oil coming.

Because their eyes were gone.

I had to Google how to eat one. When I did, I found out that people also eat soft shell turtles. Since we went to the park earlier today and saw some turtles paddling around all plump and juicy, I surreptitiously checked the town's laws on removing animals from a local pond for human consumption. As far as I can tell, it's a no on fishing, but turtling isn't even mentioned.

I guess it's no coincidence that the Mayor of Lancaster's nickname is TURTLE SLAYER.

I'm not really sure why I feel okay about frying up turtles and not crabs, but that's beside the point. You come to me for fine culinary information, and I'm here to give it to you. Fortunately, there really isn't much to making soft shell crabs, which is good because I don't want to think about it any more than I have to.

1. Dredge 'em.
2. Fry 'em.
3. Set 'em in front of your squeamish girlfriend along with a big bowl of hot sauce.
4. Sit back and watch as she starts to cry a little bit. Adorable.

It wasn't all that bad when I was just poking at it with my fork, nodding my head and trying to look super adventurous and totally game while The Boy ripped an entire claw off his crab like some feral beast. I put my head down and daintily cut off the tip of a leg, dipped it in hot sauce, and set it on my tongue just as The Boy said, "Okay, I don't know what this green stuff is that just shot out, but I don't think it's bad." 

Here's an artist's rendering of my face, drawn on a used paper towel:

Just look at those eyebrows.

I made it through one claw and a bite of meat before I had to give up. So while I ate a lovely, light summer salad with sliced strawberries and vinaigrette, The Boy finished up three crabs by himself, then tried to to make me feel better by showing me pictures of all the gross sea creatures he didn't try to feed me for dinner.

But now, one of us is bent over the toilet, and it isn't me.

The crabs always get their revenge.

Image via Sober in a Nightclub.

I Should've Been a Bachelor

Here's something the stereotypes don't tell you: Sometimes girls are messy.

Not endearingly untidy or adorably scatterbrained, but deeply, patholigically dirty, in a way that makes you clasp your hand to your bosom and whisper, "How can you live like this?"

It's disgusting, but messiness usually means the girl is brilliant, beautiful, and/or wildly talented.

It just so happens that none of those applies to me. I am just gross.

I am also hungry, most of the time. Sometimes when I don't eat for over half an hour, I start to cry - brave, blubbering tears over the punishment I put myself through to maintain this fantastic bod.

Stop laughing.

Whenever The Hunger comes upon me, nothing can stop my path of destruction through everything  even remotely edible in the general vicinity.

Not even an expiration date.

When I first moved to Pennsylvania and hung out in The Boy's apartment all day while looking for a job, there wasn't much to eat. The Boy can't eat eggs, gluten, or dairy, so I didn't have many options for edible food. I bought a loaf of bread and made tuna sandwiches most days, but after a week or so I finally realized that the mayonnaise had expired in 2011.

I read the date mid-bite, but instead of spitting it out and throwing the rest of the sandwich away, I figured I might as well finish it. If I was going to die anyway, it seemed foolish to die hungry.

After I finished, I put the relish away and reached for the mayonnaise.

And paused.

And thought about my actions.

The garbage wasn't full; it wasn't as if throwing this old mayonnaise away would require a trip to the dumpster. But I kind of thought I might want tuna the next day, and throwing the bottle away today meant a trip to the store tomorrow. Besides, the trash was behind a closed cabinet, and the fridge door was already open.

Really, the decision was made for me.

I recently bough a new jar of mayo, after finishing the last one about a month ago. New expiration date: May 2014.

Well. We'll see.




Image of Marlene Deitrich by Eugene Robert Richee, via tumblr; “La Naine Dona Mercedes” by Ignacio Zuloaga, via Where is Pierre.

Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen

Those of you who know me are already aware that I am an excellent cook. Why, just last week I made Very Good Grilled Cheese, a recipe that's been in my family since the invention of sliced bread.* And who could forget the Instant Pudding Fest of '09, when everyone showed up with butterscotch and Bill Cosby wrote that particularly nasty response to our fan letter? Sadly, though, The Boy's stomach will not let him eat gluten, dairy, or eggs, so my talents are wasted in light of these culinary cutbacks.

Basically, we eat a lot of Mexican. Every day's a fiesta here in South Central PA.

His diet doesn't really affect me, since I can gobble down five dozen eggs and entire bushels of raw wheat while he's at work and doesn't know what he's missing. For dinners and weekends, however, we have to be a little more creative. Sometimes we're able to whip up mushrooms in a white wine bath or beef bourguignon, tipping our hats at our own fanciness, but last night we tried to finagle a recipe for flax meal pancakes with egg, milk, and flour substitutes.

They turned out great, since we just happened to be in the mood for globby, grainy banana-discs smothered in syrup to hide the distinct, old-person flavor of all the flax. Now, I really shouldn't give away all my secrets, but I suppose - oh, just this once, now! - Auntie Carrie will share this wonderful, hearty recipe with you.

Breakfast or burgers? Who can tell!

Perfect Flax Meal Pancakes 
(made with egg, milk, and wheat substitutes)

Yield: Half a serving. Throw the other half out, or save for disc golf.

1.  Find a recipe for gluten-free, vegan flax meal pancakes. I hope you didn't think I would just give you the recipe. We searched for half an hour just to find one recipe whose ingredients we could pronounce. The reward will be much greater if you have to struggle for it.
   
   
2. Start mixing everything together. We used flax meal, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and some other stuff I can't remember right now. Honey, vinegar, stuff like that. Basically just throw in whatever you need to use up. Leftover ham, a mushy cucumber, some mold. If you don't happen to have flax on hand, just use some sand: it tastes almost the same, and it's full of nutrients!
   
   
3. Grind up some bananas. If you have to gag, that's okay. Bananas are disgusting, but it seems they make a bang-up substitute for eggs in pancake recipes. I'm still unconvinced. Wouldn't use 'em in waffles.
   
4. Mix everything up. Shout, "HEY. IT LOOKS LIKE BATTER." Smile creepily at your cooking partner.
   
   

   

   Hooray for cooking!

   
   
5. Heat up some oil in a pan. Don't let it get too hot now, or you'll end up with fried dough lumps, all charred on the outside and wet in the middle. The recipe actually calls for coconut oil, but it turns out you have none because coconut oil is especially useful for shaving your legs. Shout, "This sort of thing would never have happened to Julia Child!" and dissolve into tears for the next twenty minutes. Collect your tears and use the liquid in place of the oil.
   
6. FRY THOSE BAD BOYS UP! You'd think that they would get all bubbly on the top like real pancakes, but they don't. They just sort of lay there all still, like a Victorian woman in the sack. So just do a hundred fancy flips with your spatula and then wrangle with the pan a little to get your pancakes off their blackened backs and onto their bellies. Pour yourself a cup of coffee  and then prod your little cakes. Are they strangely springy, despite their crisp exterior? When you poke your spatula into them, is there a distinct ooze? Then HOORAY, THEY'RE DONE!
   
7. Enjoy. Eat them as soon as possible - literally flip them right out of the pan and into your mouth. With any luck, the heat will scorch your taste buds and make the pancakes seem almost edible.

Next week I'll be sharing my secret recipe for Auntie Carrie's Butterscotch Pudding made in a crockpot. You won't want to miss it!




*Before then, we were known for our Pretty Okay Grilled Cheese.



Image by Alan Shapiro.