Just Exploring Crabbing

I feel like I got in more touch with my grandmother's side of the family last week.

I have vague memories of crabbing at a 1989 family reunion in Virginia Beach. I would have been five, almost six, and my memory of floating in a rubber dinghy, crab line in hand, is either real or derived from photos. But I know this part of family -- my grandmother and her siblings, their offspring, and their offspring -- crab. 

Photos show a grinning cousin holding up a bushel basket filled with blue crabs; my father and uncle, waist-high in the water with lines; my grandmother and great aunts and uncles sitting around a table covered in newspaper and boiled crabs.

Apart from that family reunion, I have crabbed maybe once on the Outerbanks, out of shallow, reedy ditch. We threw back everything we caught. It was based on this little experience, emailed instructions, and some YouTube videos that I lead my husband and friends on their first crabbing experience. 

I tweeted my concern about our expedition, to which my brother replied, "How hard can it be? Twine + fence post + ocean = crab."

Turns out he was right, although that equation is missing "raw chicken" and "fishing weight." We caught 14 crabs and cooked and ate six of them that night. 

Here are a few things I learned from my first grown-up crabbing venture: 

1. 7 Elevens do not sell twine. Walgreens does. 

2. You can use kite string (on a handle or a spool) for your line. 

3. Apparently, leaving your chicken necks outside over night increases the nibbles.  

4. You can simply stand in the water with your net and line. A low dock would probably decrease the chance of a crab running across your feet. 

5. You'll know when there's a crab on your line -- there is a definite tug. 

6. Putting blue crabs in fresh water for 30 minutes doesn't drown them. 

7. A crab can crawl out of a plastic colander 

Bacon Ball 2013

I'm not a bacon freak. A year ago, as a pesco-vegetarian (bad vegetarian) I wasn't even eating bacon. So I wasn't going to attend the Louisville Visual Art Association's third annual Bacon Ball, but my husband wanted to go, and I love food and bourbon. This event promised both, on a farm. To Bacon Ball we went (I typed "Bourbon Ball." Wishful thinking).

Here's Oxmoor Farm. I was really looking forward to seeing the actual farm part, but we only got to see the side of the house (very nice) and some old stables. ​

​It's always handy to have a drink while waiting in line

​NABC chefs preparing their Bacon Ball offering

​There was a lot of standing in line at this event, but once we got drinks, that became bearable. We left full of pizza, pork, and pig prizes Gabe acquired from the silent auction: a cookbook, a gift certificate to a butcher, and two noise-making toy pigs (one is a keychain flashlight that oinks). And just in case you might forget about where all that meat was coming from, this guy was around to remind you: 

The Other Side of Spicy

"…hot chicken is a unique brand of fried chicken that's highly seasoned, some would say to incendiary proportions."

I was intrigued by the special "Hot Chicken" section in our Nashville guide book. When our friend saw it and also expressed interest, we had our dinner plans. 

The guide book recommended a hot chicken place near us, Bolton's (the only spot that also does hot fish, according to the fifth edition of Insiders' Guide Nashville). We ordered through the window -- medium spicy wings to share, and various levels of spice from medium to "as hot as you can make it" on our individual orders of quarters and legs. The guy in line behind us overheard our friend order his chicken "hot" and said, "Oh… you don't want hot." 

Now. I love spicy food. I grew up in Texas, and Picante commercials taught me that my home state knew salsa (and to me, salsa means heat, or don't bother). My dad ate Tabasco on everything, and my mom made him (and later me) homegrown Scotch Bonnet-Habañero relish. I like it hot and am stupid about it. So yes, I do want it hot. 

I volunteered my Texan origins to this wise gentleman, which convinced him that I'd be "good." I'm glad others will so easily join in my delusion. 

Bolton's waiting-and-dining area has four tables and hardly enough room for the crowd that gathered, so everyone overheard our order. They were eager to witness our first hot chicken experience (I think they just wanted to see if we'd cry), but we got our chicken to go. On the patio of our weekend home, we spread out our boxes, napkins and beers. The chicken comes with slices of white bread and two sides. These, I suppose, are to ease the burn. 

I started with the medium-hot wings and knew I was in trouble, Texas roots and all. Next to me, our friend drank his beer and announced he was burning. I was officially concerned about my hot chicken leg and knew I would not try my husband's "hot as you can make it" chicken. We soldiered on, tongues and stomachs burning, gulping beer and sides -- mac and cheese, greens, baked beans, slaw -- fists clenched, "experiencing THINGS."

And then it happened. My husband knows this feeling, and though I believed him, I had a hard time imagining it. But it happened. We passed to the other side of spicy. I could still feel the heat in my stomach, but slowly, the pain was gone. And I felt… good? I really did experience things and was able to eat the rest of my meal without feeling like a cartoon of a guy eating a hot pepper. 

If you're headed to Nashville and want to experience your own spicy feelings, in addition to Bolton's, 400 Degrees, Prince's (here's a great video about them), and Hattie B's were recommended to us. There's also a Hot Chicken Festival in July. I will be looking for something comparable in Louisville, and I welcome tips -- not just for chicken, but any really spicy food. Have you ever traveled to the other side of hot? 

Blueberry Traditions

Two years ago, I decided I should try to carry on a family tradition of berry picking. From about third grade until I left home, my family spent one Saturday morning each summer at an orchard. We would get up around five or six to arrive early and avoid the worst of the Texas heat. We did it when we lived outside Dallas, and we found a new place when we moved to Houston (The King’s Orchard, now apparently a parking lot for the Renaissance Fair). We’d carpool with family friends, bring sunblock and sandwiches, pick for a few hours, then head home. My mom, in a jumpsuit and gloves, headed to the blackberries. The rest of us stuck to blueberries. When we got home, we made blackberry jam, and bagged and froze the blueberries. And then, blueberries for the rest of the year.

I missed this in college, but never made a real effort to locate a farm near St. Louis. But there are a few options around Louisville, so my first summer in Kentucky, we decided visit Huber’s Orchard. So Gabe and I met some friends at the farm in Starlight, Indiana, where we rode a tractor-pulled flatbed trailer to the blueberry bushes. We picked (and ate) blueberries for at least two hours, and when we checked out, our harvest weighed in at around 20 pounds. The berries lasted us the whole year and were mostly consumed on cereal and in pancakes.

We never made it out last year, and 2011-12 was mostly barren of blueberries. This year, (tomorrow, in fact), on the recommendation of a friend and “Edible Louisville,” we’ll head to Bryant’s Blueberries in New Salisbury, Indiana, to see what they have to offer for picking. As their name indicates, they only grow blueberries, so there will be no getting distracted by peaches or blackberries (less hardy than my mother, I’m never willing to struggle with the thorns involved in acquiring a basket of those berries). Anyone willing to join last minute should be prepared for an early morning — the farm opens for picking at 7:30 and closes at noon. And bring cash or your checkbook — Bryant’s doesn’t take cards.