Cookin’ And Eatin’ Crawfish

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.”

What a glorious day! After the meal, a wise old black man and a boy he called his white son stretched out under a willow tree to relax

After baiting my hook and jamming the pole in the bank, I gathered dewberries from briar bushes behind us. My curiosity soared when Jaybird filled the pot with water and poured in the salt, which as he explained, would purge the crawfish, a necessary step before eating them. Suddenly he shouted, “Look, boy — yo’ cork done gone clean under!” I grabbed the pole and fought a large catfish to shore. After assuring me he would cook the fish for our supper, he said, “Okay, let’s catch some crawfish to eat right now.” First, he began poking a stick into hollow, chimney-shaped mud mounds crawfish made along the water’s edge. Each time, a huge, deep orange crawfish, furious that his domain had been invaded, clamped its pincers onto the stick and was raised slowly from the hole. When Jaybird had caught a bucketful, he dumped them into the salty, boiling water for purging. Next, he arranged the bricks in a circle, filled the area inside them with sticks, and started a fire. As the blaze began to roar, he chuckled, “Boy, ain’t nothing better than cookin’ and eatin’ fresh-caught crawfish.” After the catch was purged sufficiently, Jaybird filled the pot with fresh water, placed it on the bricks above the fire, and poured in the #, which gave off a heady aroma, exciting my salivary glands Soon, the water came to a rolling boil. One by one, he dropped the crawfish, still alive and snapping their pincers at his hand, into the boiling water. When they were ready to eat, he showed me how to break off their heads and squeeze a huge chunk of pink flesh out of the tail. The taste was divine, and we ate our fill. What a glorious day! After the meal, a wise old black man and a boy he called his white son stretched out under a willow tree to relax. Before dozing off into a nap, I asked, “when you were a boy, Jaybird, did you fish in this creek?” To which he replied, “Oh yes, many, many years before you were born. This place has not changed a bit, and my best memory of those days are the same as what we did today: cookin’ and eatin’ crawfish.”

This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s upcoming book, entitled The Jaybird Tales. The book will be available before the holiday season. Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (jimmycecilreedjr@gmail.com).