Hikers: This missive was constructed for
You might not recognize the “critters” mentioned in the title, but you’ve got ‘em in
I can see them now- a steaming plate of tails- repulsive in every detail (except to the palate). Jambalaya, crawfish pie or fillet gumbo, the shrimp of the mud hole. But they are hardly known outside the deep South:
You get a line, and I’ll get a pole, honey;
You get a line and I’ll get a pole, babe.
Oh- you get a line and I’ll get a pole,
And we’ll go down to the crawdad hole- Honey, Baby of mine.
Now there comes a man with a sack on his back, Honey;
There comes a man with a sack on his back, Babe.
Well, there comes a man with a sack on his back,
And watch those crawdads backing back- Honey, Baby of mine.
Well, what’cha gonna do when the lake goes dry, Honey?
Whatcha gonna do when the lake goes dry, Babe?
Well whatcha gonna do when the lake goes dry?
Gonna sit on the bank and watch the crawdads die- Honey Baby of mine.
Now you might not be sitting there, misty-eyed, imagination soaring, stomach machinating at the thought of these dauntless lobsters- which move backwards at the speed of underwater sound. But in
Being lazier, what I do is to wait until mid-July around the Western lakes. Then I go out in the early morn, to sunlit waters unblemished by mountain winds, and watch for the sluggish females, which are heavy with young. They like the protection of shallow depressions in six-inch water depths, where they deliver their young (by the thousands). One has merely has to bend down and pick ‘em up. Grasp them by the mid-section, to avoid those painful claws, and carry a bucket on a neck strap for the harvest. It takes about a hundred of these monsters for each diner (one tail produces one bite).
But they are easy to cook. Just bring a two gallon pot of water up to a boil, then plop them into it for 5 minutes. Don’t forget the Tabasco Sauce; add it in liberal quantities, and you’ve got a feast. Let every man-Jack take care of his own tails. That builds up your appetite, while working to get rid of that scaly protection, since no self-respectful cook who has any “erudicity” will do all that work for you. Ignore that unsightly green appendage pointing toward the “Prize”, and you’re in Coon-Ass heaven!
Harold L. Overton