Fighting The Crabs

I heard the crickets yesterday and have wisely chosen not to post any more excerpts from the book I'm working on. :) Now, on to fight the crabs. . .

My mother, being the social butterfly that she is, tends to have a very internationally diverse group of friends. In fact, she  is probably more representative than the United Nations. One day she took me to visit some of her friends from an African nation at a business they owned. I walked the aisles while she spoke with her friends. The only words I said to the two gentlemen were hello and goodbye.

When we walked out of the store she asked if she could prepare dinner for them at my house. "Yes.", I said, and she was delighted. She knew exactly what she wanted to cook: crabs. I can't eat the little buggers, they make my face red and burning hot, but I didn't mind, I didn't eat much back then anyway and planned to skip dinner.

A week later we both started preparing for the dinner; she went food shopping and I gave my house a good cleaning. I focused most of my energy on the kitchen, since I rarely used it other than to make infrequent visits to the microwave, and it was covered in a layer of dust. By the time my mother arrived with the food, and the crabs, my place was sparkling. My mother began chopping the vegetables, preparing the seasoning, and boiling the water for the - Dun-Dun-Dun-Dun - crabs.

As the vegetables were steaming, my mother and I commenced to putting the crabs in the boiling water. They were in a bag, moving around, and for whatever reason did not have rubber bands around their little claws. We took the bag and turned it over above the giant pot of boiling water. The crabs fought for their lives, squealing and squeaking and snapping with their claws! Most of them made it out of the pot and onto the floor, where they scattered to various hiding places. I was squealing and squeaking too, I didn't want to be snapped by one of the claws. My mother armed herself with the broom and dustpan and I helped wrangle the creatures into the dustpan to be dumped back into the pot. But - there was one crab in particular, that kept escaping. On its final escape, there was a standoff between my mother and the crab. Every time she approached, "Snap, snap!" She would back off, and it would scuttle to the side, sizing her up. Finally, she lunged at using the broom handle as a lance and the dustpan as a shield. "Snap, snap! Snap, snap, snap!" It was on! but in the end, the little crab lost his battle and wound up in the pot with his buddies.

As the guests arrived, and I sat them at the dining room table, my mother began presenting the meal. As the two men began cracking open the crabs, I couldn't help but to think of the battle that had just been won. My smile turned into a laugh, and then hysterical boisterous laughter. The two exchanged looks, and mumbled in their native tongue. I think they thought we poisoned them :)

Tomorrow, More Of A Good Thing. . .