My Mama's Crab Boil

Beads of sweat tickled my upper lip as I cycled to the neighborhood grocery store. With my knapsack strapped on tight, I sped by stationary mom-mobiles stuck in the dinner rush. Nashville’s relentless August heat threatened to sweat out my morale, but I was a girl on a mission. On this blistering evening, I had one duty: save Mama’s crab boil.

I loved Mama’s crab boil like knitting circles love gossip. The mere mention of summer conjured up images of Mama sweating over a pot bigger than her torso while I eagerly looked on. In the pot, she boiled potatoes, onions, ears of corn, shrimp, sausage, and crab legs in an Old Bay-infused bath. All those ingredients mingled together in the air, generating a salty, spiced aroma. Watching Mama’s delicate yet strong hand stir the boil reminded me of a witch with her cauldron, and I fell under the spell of Mama’s addictive cooking.

The controlled chaos of Mama’s crab boil is what won me over. On crab boil nights, we’d shut out the mosquitoes and hot air, saving the grill for another day. We’d lay out torn brown paper bags across the dining room table and dump the boiled concoction right in the middle of this humble spread. Armed with crab crackers, melted butter, and sheets of paper towels, our family of four supped on this delightful mess—no plates necessary. We laughed and joked with corn kernels and crab meat sticking to our faces. That hearty communion of buttered fingers and sloppy eating represented the essence of summer.

On this particular crab boil night, I was in the living room ripping up Publix bags while Papa snored through Malcolm X and my younger brother fiddled with Legos. I had just torn through an advertisement for Tums when Mama exclaimed. I shuffled into the kitchen to find her clucking at an open fridge. Even from across the room, I could see. We were missing an ingredient.

Before Mama’s mouth could even form the question, I’d snatched up my helmet and trusty knapsack. “I’ll get it.”

Mama peered into the living room and seeing my father fast asleep waved me off, sloshing around the Milo’s in her monogrammed Tervis tumbler. “Be quick,” she ordered while sweet tea droplets splattered the hardwood floor. “Don’t you come back with any junk food now.” And off I went.

Rolling up to the store’s bike rack, I thought through the various aisles…1: cereals, 2: spices, 3: grains…. Countless after-school stops with Mama for weekly shopping had created a virtual map in my brain. Directions were only half the battle though. Any Southern grocery store is a labyrinth of pleasantries as you dodge small talk with Mr. Little from church, or Mary Grace’s mom, or your 6th grade reading teacher.

With Mama’s orders on my mind, I braved the automatic sliding doors with my head down, almost sprinting to aisle five. I turned the aisle’s corner only to face the greatest possible nemesis to my mission: Mrs. Bee.

Mrs. Bee was none other than the local gossip. Like many God-fearing Southerners, Mrs. Bee possessed a knack for weaseling her way into others’ business. Just out of concern for her fellow neighbor, of course. At the time, I just knew her as the woman who always chatted Mama up after service and made us late for Sunday brunch. I steeled myself up for this encounter.

“Kristen!” Mrs. Bee said with a smile, consuming me in a big embrace. “How’s that mama of yours doing?”

I cracked a smile. “Just fine, Mrs. Bee. She sure does miss you at Bible Study.” In the moment, I was proud of myself for remembering this one detail.

“Is that so? Is she here in the store with you now?” Mrs. Bee asked, craning her neck to see if Mama was hiding just out of her line of sight.

“No, ma’am.” With sweaty palms, I realized this was my chance to derail Mrs. Bee’s questioning, which would only increase in length and specificity. “I’m here to run a last-minute errand. Mama forgot something for our crab boil, and they’re all waiting on me.”

In true Mrs. Bee fashion, she threw up her hands in exaggerated shock before giving me a reassuring pinch on the shoulder. “Well, you best not be late then, little lady. I won’t stop you, but you tell your Mama that she owes me a coffee date, hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Triumphantly, I snatched up my spoils and marched to the self-checkout with the confidence of this small victory. In my hand, I clasped the pesky missing ingredient: cocktail sauce.