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.

Recipes from Auntie Carrie's Kitchen: Tamales!

Being from Northern Mexico*, I know all the secrets of Authentic Mexican Cuisine - the main one being that there are only three ingredients in all of Mexican cookery, and those are just rearranged and given a new name, like when the nerdy girl supposedly gets a life-changing makeover, but really she just takes off her glasses and brushes her teeth for once. But everyone's still like, Whoa! Enchiladas! Those were tacos a minute ago.

To fill your Mexican pantry, you need only the following:

1. Beans
2. Corn
3. Meat (a pig will do)

From those ingredients, you can make any Mexican dish you choose, like Easter Tamales, which is what we are making today. I do realize it's a week after Easter, but we had leftover meat, so we're making them again because they're that good. Plus, if I post this now, you'll have just enough time to grow your corn, dry the husks, and grind the masa for next Easter.

This excerpt from La Cocina de la Familia explains the origin of this festive meal:

The tradition of Easter Tamales comes from a little village called Oaxaca, where the days are hot and so is your sweat rash. One year, foxes killed all the chickens in the village a week before Easter. With no eggs to hide, one clever senorita (La Bruja, as she was known in Oaxaca) made fake eggs using soft dough as the white and a bit of meat as the yolk, all wrapped in a corn husk shell. Early on Easter morning she hid the little bundles all over the town, singing her wispy witch-songs all the while. It had rained the night before, but the sun was hot that morning and the water evaporated quickly, steaming the little "eggs" until the dough was cooked through. All the little children had to do was follow their noses to find the delicious Easter treats!

Of course, before long all the children had fallen ill with food poisoning, because you really shouldn't eat food that's been cooked on the ground.

[Disclaimer: This may or may not be entirely accurate. My copy of the cookbook is in Spanish, and I don't remember enough from elementary school Spanish class to understand the description under the tamale recipe. But it makes me look super legit to all my other chef friends who only have French cookbooks - suckas!]

When making authentic tamales, it is imperative that you grow your own corn, grind the masa, and collect the husks for wrapping the tamales. I think it goes without saying that you should butcher and roast your own meat in a hole outside, so we can skip that part. One tip for any beginners - right as you cuddle up to slit the animal's throat, sing this traditional Slaughter Song softly in its fuzzy, little ear to ease its suffering and lull it into a false sense of security:

O! this pig is fat,

This pig is fine,

His belly will be

Food for mine!

He roots around 

In muck and mud,

But fried up nice

He'll taste so good!

As crispy bacon

Or roasted rump,

There's not a meat

This pig can't trump!

So don't you cry

My little sow,

Just close your eyes 

As I gut you now!

This song is also commonly used as a lullaby for children who don't eat their vegetables.

Now, on to the recipe:

1. Roast the animal in a large hole, making sure to retain a generous hunk of the fat for your dough. Shred the pork and combine with a hot sauce made of ground jalapenos, garlic, onions, and salt. If you want, go ahead and add some fat to the sauce, as well. Many people serve a bowl of fat along with the tamales for dipping. Pig fat also makes a nice hair pomade, a tasty lip gloss, and a perfectly fine slip-and-slide when slicked across the grass and sprayed down with water.
2. Mix some masa with warm broth. Whip up the pig lard and add it to the dough. Smoosh it all together with your fingers until it stops making a gross squishing sound. Now it's ready to wrap!
3. Spread a thin layer of dough on a corn husk that's been soaked in water and drained. Place a bit of meat in the center, along with any other filling you'd like: queso, the eye of the pig, or another tamale. Then close up the tamale like so:
   
   
4. Line the little guys up in a steamer and place on the stove to steam away. Make sure not to turn the heat too high, or all the water will boil away while you're off eating leftover cheese, and you will burn the bottom out of your pot and then cry because dinner is ruined, and your hungry friends will get mad and rage-order a pizza.
5. Drizzle with hot sauce, add a hearty dollop of pig fat, and enjoy!
6. Oh, also - don't forget to unwrap the corn husk before you eat it. Those silk threads are a bitch to get out of your teeth.

* Or Southern California, as you Americans call it.



Images via Slice of Midlife, Tumblr.

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.