a bit of the bayou

We went crayfishing the other day. Armed with traps that reminded me more of hanging fruit baskets for the kitchen, we’d strategically (read: right side up, in the water) set them down in the muddy stream, wait a few minutes, and then pull them back onto land. The  traps being little more than glorified nets, it was key to get it out of the water and onto land before the big bugs would crawl through the net and back to safety. We baited with some old sardines Claudette had in the freezer along with special crayfish (écrevisse) snacks (read: not-so-slim dry blood sausage slim jims). The little buggers preferred what probably more natural to them: the sardines (or maybe it had something to do with the snackies not being organic).

We were worried at first that it’d go the way of my flopped turkey  hunt last fall (no turkeys in sight, thanks), but after a few empty nets we caught onto their game, and ended up with something like 80 of the American guys (turns out they’re not native: they’re a pest that somehow got transplanted at some point—the better, I’m told, native crustaceans of bigger rivers are only allowed to be hunted one day each year). Cleaning them meant carefully grabbing the body with one hand (careful not to lose a finger in their pinching claws), and pulling out their middle tail-fin, vein (and digestive waste) included. Cooking them was deliciously straightforward: a hard sear, ample garlic and parsley, and a flambé of Vincent’s prune (plum) eau de vie (literally: water of life, really: fire water). They yield even less than Maryland blue crabs, so you need to be prepared with a patient appetite and to make use of the guts, not just the tails. There were lots of mosquitoes and thorns about, but a hyper- (as they say around here) fun time.