When my three daughters invited me to a crawfish cook, I was thrilled — nothing boosts my ego more than being with my pulchritudinous progeny. After enjoying the succulent crustaceans, we parted ways. I strolled homeward, reflecting on how blessed I was to be loved by those girls. I also thought about the first time I ate crawfish.
The day was perfect for an afternoon of fishing in a creek near Dad’s Mississippi Delta farm. As my boyhood best friend and mentor Jaybird and I walked down a railroad track toward the stream, I carried a can of worms and fishing poles; Jaybird, toting a black pot, bricks, salt, and bags of #, said, “Boy, I’m going to cook the best crawfish you’ll ever eat.”
