The Cupcake: Through a Frosting, Darkly

I have always been mildly troubled by cupcakes. I understand their immediate attraction– they’re cute, individual packages of utensil-free eating. It’s cake on-the-go for busy people who like such things. I had once thought they were adorable for children’s parties, but I am no longer convinced.

I just don’t care much for them. Not that they aren’t occasionally delicious. I just don’t like what they stand for.

The Origin, in Brief

The name “cupcake” is derived from its method of measurement, though it is also argued that these treats were often baked in cups or smaller baking tins in the 19th Century, when oven-baking was done with wood fires, which had the bad habit of making the production of larger, more substantial cakes subject to uneven cooking and burning.

Rather than weighing ingredients, the cupcake was borne of measuring by volume and a need for easy counting, thanks to non-universal literacy rates:

1 cup butter, 2 cups sugar, 3 cups flours, 4 eggs.

Essentially, the cupcake was created as a helpful recipe for the illiterate, the bad bakers of the world, or both.

Cute in a Cup

For me, cute is only appealing if there is some element of menace behind it, much like sweetness needs a pinch of salt to prevent it from becoming cloying, insipid. Puppies, which are smaller versions of solid, dependable dogs are cute, but they are unpredictable, sad-eyed creatures capable of terrible destruction at any given moment. The child star Shirley Temple was a cute, smaller version of the more serious Ambassador to Ghana-and-Czechoslovakia Shirley Temple Black, but she has earned her place in my heart by playing edgier parts before hitting the big time: knife-wielding tots, honky-tonk singers, and highly-paid temptresses bent on destroying the integrity of politicians new to Washington. Cupcakes are merely irritatingly cute, diminutive versions of a proper cake. Of course, given their newly-realized, inherent dangers, I think they might qualify, but it doesn’t make me like them more.

Sharing is Caring

I’ve been thinking about the cupcake ever since a newlywed couple hosted their nuptial dinner at my restaurant. The bride was a depressing control-freak who didn’t for one moment seem to be enjoying herself at her own wedding, unsmiling except when posing for photographs. The new husband was obliging, obedient, and wore a bewildered look on his face, especially when posing for photographs.

The wedding “cake” was comprised of three tiers of cupcakes monogrammed with the bride’s and groom’s’ initials. One bloated, over-sized cupcake sat on top. I stared at the cakes for a moment, feeling mildly disgusted and uneasy about the couple’s future.

And then Doug, one of my co-workers, hit on what was bothering me when he grumbled that this bridal couple just didn’t get it, that cupcakes are individual items, unsharable; that dividing up a true cake would have symbolized the couple’s desire to share their happiness with their guests. I went back to look at the bride and groom. They sat alone, facing each other at a tiny square table, while guests and family sat apart from them at larger, round ones. I felt a little depressed.

Cupcakes are, by nature, considered separate but equal confections. There is no question, as in the sub-division of a large cake, as to who receives a frosting rose, who gets a corner piece, who gets a bigger or smaller slice. They are all, more or less, similar to one another. They are dismally egalitarian.

Each bite of a cupcake is designed to be similar to the next. It is a relatively mindless process. With a slice of layer cake, however, there is inner negotiation, which is part of the joy of eating one. Does one eat the frosted outer edge first, or save it for last, or does one move back and forth between them?

This is, perhaps, why I no longer think cupcakes are such a good idea for children’s parties. While the allure of their convenience might be attractive to harried parents (and what parent in their right mind doesn’t look for a shortcut here and there?), cupcakes teach children nothing about how life really works: negotiation (I’ll trade you my frosting rose for your corner piece), disappointment (why did I get such a small piece?), hierarchy (Why did she get a better piece? Is it because her mommy is my daddy’s boss?), or, most importantly, sharing (You want some more frosting? Here, have some of mine.). They are, sadly, one of the many indications of the modern parent’s tendency towards protecting children from anything “unpleasant”.

Speaking of Unpleasant…

Perhaps my first experience with birthday cupcakes left a bad taste in my mouth. A girl, who I shall call “Karen” (because that is her real name), was given a special 6th birthday party in our kindergarten class. Her mother was our ever-present teacher’s aide. For the special event, Karen’s mother had baked cupcakes into Scoopy’s ice cream cones, which technically would, I suppose, make them cone cakes. Karen’s was, unsurprisingly, more elaborate than the other cupcakes. Her name was even embossed on the cone. The rest of us got random names, none of which matched.

It is more than likely possible that I was jealous of the fact that, since Karen’s birthday fell within the school year and had a mother in a position of influence among the kindergarten-teaching set, she could be singled out for specialness, just as she was often awarded the title of “Wake-up Fairy”, which was bestowed upon the best napper in class on any given day. I was a lousy napper and never allowed to play that particular rôle.

So it was with the most satisfying touch of schadenfreude, that I witnessed the birthday girl bite off the tip of her tongue as she tucked into her special cupcake. The rest of us were shocked into silence when she screamed, the blood pooling over the frosting of her dessert as she opened her mouth to cry and dripping down the white apron-front of her party dress.

By high school, Karen was running around with the Heavy Metal crowd and, I believe, referring to herself as a “headbanger”. I’ve often wondered if that first taste of blood-tinged frosting influenced her future tastes. I’m not saying, I’m just saying.

I Knew You Were Coming

A birthday is a very special event, as is a wedding, or a much-anticipated visit from a loved one. To bake a cake in honor of someone is to tell them you esteem them sufficiently to make a gift of your time. Not so with the cupcake. It is diminuitive and, therefore, all sentiment is automatically diminished. Had Eileen Barton, for example, sung “If I Knew You Were Comin’, I’d've Baked a Cupcake”, the meaning would have been lessened to almost pointlessness– a sort of, “oh, hey. Welcome. Just put your stuff over there and we’ll unfold the couch when I’m off the phone.” Cupcakes are too quotidian to illicit as much good will as a full cake, no matter what their biggest fans might tell you.

One Cupcake, Indivisible

Recently, when Googling the word “cupcake”, I came across this rather provocative quote:

“America is an enormous cupcake in the middle of millions of starving people.” — Gloria Steinem

I’m sure anyone could have a field day with this statement. “One cupcake, indivisible,” was my first thought. Cupcakes are a symbol of, if not independence, then individuality. America is seen as a place where freedom of expression is encouraged. The cupcake is not self-sufficient, it takes several ingredients and the efforts of a baker, for example, to create it. It is, however, self-contained– it stands alone, apart, and, in its paper wrapper, symbolizes our modern obsession with hygiene. A perfect, if heavy-handed metaphor for a nation that has historically preferred isolation and individual freedoms to full engagement and, say, universal health care.

Is it any big surprise that the popularity of the cupcake wildly increased dring Bush’s years in the White House? Interesting.

I won’t even get into what those millions of starving people of the world might think of us. Some of it’s good, some of it’s rather unpleasant. I do not, however, wish for them to think of us as an unengaging, selfish little cupcake. If our history teaches us anything, it’s that we are quick learners. We can’t go it alone. We need to share with our friends and bribe new allies with frosting roses. Perhaps if we kick this annoying little cupcake habit and turn instead to sharing larger baked goods that are, by nature and necessity, broader in their world view, we all might just all get along.

Oh, who am I kidding? But it would be a nice start.

A Final Treat

Back to Shirley Temple. As the black lingerie-clad temptress-for-hire Polly Tix, she slinks and vamps her way into the new-in-town senator’s heart. How does she entice him into selling his soul?

An enormous cake, that’s how.

Tipping: Down and Out

Things are tough all over. This isn’t exactly news. I can’t think of a single person I know who hasn’t been hit on some level by the mess our economy is in. Everyone, it seems, is scaling back on spending.

And who can blame them?

In a city that prides itself on its food scene, San Francisco’s restaurants have taken a very hard hit. With fewer people lunching and dining out these days, many places in the city have either laid off staff or cut their hours. Some once-favored haunts have decided to close their doors for lunch, some have chosen to to hang out the “Now Open for Sunday Brunch” sign (which is usually an indicator of fiscal desperation), some have been forced to shut down permanently.

As a professional waiter, I consider myself very lucky to be working in a popular and (blessedly) busy restaurant. Hell, I consider myself lucky to have a job. Period.

Tipping Down

The current trend in dining these days seems to be downsizing– from the price tag of the wine purchase to the amount of food ordered. Perfectly understandable. Not a single server I have talked to about the situation was unsympathetic to the current, collective economic plight. People are ordering fewer bottles of wine, and more are going for what some refer to as “non’trées”– the ordering of appetizers in lieu of main courses. It’s a hit to our wallets, of course (I have personally seen an average 30% decrease in my own sales), but we know were not the only ones. It’s been openly discussed at our staff meetings that the guests who were dining with us in the fat times are still here with us in the lean ones, and we should be ever mindful of that. Which, for the most part, we are. The goal is to keep them coming back. We are making less money, of course, but we are working harder for it.

And that’s fine.

What isn’t fine is the much more alarming trend that seems to be running apace with the downsizing of dine-out meals– the downsizing of tips. Along with decreased sales, servers are seeing a general lowering of their gratuity’s percentage. And this is not okay. Not at all.

Tipping Out

I’ve always wondered if people who have never worked in the service industry know how restaurant tipping actually operates. It’s a subject that most people probably don’t give much thought to. You tip your server, she pockets the money, and goes home with it at the end of the shift.

But that’s not how it works.

In a recent phone interview with a reporter from a major national newspaper, I was asked about the current economic situation and how it was affecting San Francisco restaurants. In relating my own experience, I told her roughly what I sell on an average night and what my tips are like. When I told her where exactly that money went, how I am taxed on my sales, and what I actually walk out the door with, she was surprised. She explained to me that, in all the years she had been covering restaurants, she had never even thought to ask about the process of tipping out. I respected her for that admission. And it dawned on me that, if she didn’t know, how many diners do?

If I am given a $50 tip, on a $250 bill, that’s wonderful, but it’s not exactly all mine to keep. In most restaurants, especially high-end places, a server is not simply working for his own tips. In my place of business, the gratuity I receive from any given table goes towards supporting nine other employees. Ten, including myself.

Here’s an illustration of what is occurring with ever-increasing frequency in our restaurants. Possibly just a bad turn of luck, but it illustrates what really happens when a good server receives a bad tip:

I’ll use the example of a fellow waiter who took care of some regular guests and four of their friends. The waiter in question is extremely professional– fun and chatty at the right moments, formal and efficient at other times, or any combination of the above-mentioned, as each case necessitates. And, above all, he actually cares about what he’s doing. He puts his heart into his work.

The regulars and their guests were treated to a few complimentary appetizers and were well taken care of, as usual. When the bill arrived, it was not the regular guests who paid, but one of their tablemates. On a $500 check, the guest left the waiter a $20 tip. Needless to say, the waiter was upset, but could say nothing, except to his co-workers and manager. Vent it , shrug it, face it, let it go. Hopefully do not repeat– that is often our sanity-saving mantra.

His tip may have been $20, which is insult enough, given his high level of care and service. The financial damage, however, is far worse in such cases.

The Break Down.

Granted, the “tip out” (what a server tips out to his support staff) varies from restaurant to restaurant. Some houses pool tips, others ensure that the kitchen staff receives a percentage. The permutations are endless, but all enacted with the goal of supporting the other, no-less-important members of the service team. This is how it works at our place of business:

Tip outs are based on sales, not the total amount of gratuity.

On a $500 sale, the waiter must give, at the very minimum:

Busser: $15 (3% but usually closer to 4% since a busser is a server’s chiefest ally)

Food Runner: $5 (1%)

Hostess: $5 (1%)

Bartender: $6.25 (1.25%)

Our stocker receives $5 per waiter as a flat fee every shift, our barista receives $10.

We do not ever decrease the amounts given to our support staff.

Having been given $20 for his services, the waiter actually lost about $12 taking care of these guests. And that’s just on the surface. The IRS calculates roughly 8% of a server’s sales as taxable income, owing to the variability of tipping. 8%, in this instance is $40– more than twice what the waiter was paid.

Clearly, I am biased. I have a vested interest in people tipping properly. And by properly, I mean 15% at the very minimum for basic service. Good service deserves 20%. That is our custom.

The goal of this post isn’t to shame people into tipping more. My readers are, by and large, pretty savvy in these matters. I just have the feeling that, if more people understood where that tip money goes and what the consequences are to those who bear the double brunt of lowered sales and lowered tips, they might think twice about saving that extra few dollars by leaving less money to the people who take care of them.

If you are well taken care of, take care of your caretakers.

Amen.

And pass it on.

The Sordid Lives of Fruit

Most days when I find myself wandering without any real purpose around the interwebs, I may find one or two stories or photos that I find interesting. I click from one link to another, wasting time.

And then, every once in a while, I stumble upon something that just blows me away.

Enter: The Sordid Lives of Fruit.

It’s just one of those things that brings me a great amount of joy; something that makes me say to myself, “I wish I had thought of that.”

It is photo storytelling at its very best. I keep returning to the images over and over again, finding something new every time I examine it.

I will never look at an orange the same way again.

More, I say. More.

V-Day + 1

I hope everyone made it through Valentine’s Day in one piece.

I’ve never been much for celebrating the day, even when in a relationship. Now that I am not currently in one, it doesn’t bother me in the least that I had no Valentine this year. I’ve always thought the tradition of wasting one’s money on manufactured sentiment a bit goofy.

Granted, spending a romantic day with the one you love isn’t such a bad thing, but if it takes a semi-national holiday to compel your parter to express his feelings, well… you’re in for some trouble.

I spent my Valentine’s Day waiting on about 14 couples– some happy, others bored, and a few downright uncomfortable. When one happily-partnered woman asked me how my Valentine felt about my working on such a special night, I just smiled and didn’t answer. When she brought up the subject again, I changed the subject. I wasn’t so much upset about not having a Valentine as I was that this woman wasn’t getting the fact that I prefer not to talk about my relationship history at work.

At the end of their meal, the woman’s boyfriend/lover/husband got up to go to the restroom and, as I came to the table to re-fold his napkin, she asked me if I was going to cook my Valentine a special dinner when I got home. At midnight? After eight hours of running around in a restaurant?

I looked at her rather sadly, bowed my head a moment, and said, “Well… he’s dead.” And then I walked away.

No more questions. But they did leave me a little extra in the tip. I hope she thinks twice about prying next time.

I decided that my next relationship will be with someone who’d be willing to spend at least one Valentine’s Day having dinner the way I want to:

We will make reservations at two restaurants well in advance. On Valentine’s Day, we will call each restaurant and reduce the number of our party from two to one. No explanations necessary. We shall dine separately, alone– he in one restaurant and I in another. He can behave however he chooses. I plan to look as convincing as possible as the man whose lover has left him on Valentine’s Day, but who felt determined to honor the hard-to-get resrvation anyway. I will sit quietly with a glass of wine or two, barely touch my $100 prix fixe menu items, and give misty-eyed smiles to as many couples as I can, taking a mental tally of how many people I can make squirm.

After dinner, my boyfriend and I will meet up for a drink, maybe a burger, and compare notes.

That is my idea of a great Valentine’s Day.

What’s yours?

Comeback: Little Sheba

I’ve been spending entirely too much time watching episodes of The French Chef with Julia Child that my friend Craig gave me.

I find Mrs. Child oddly hypnotizing. There is something about her uniquely-accented voice and the not-entirely graceful movement of her formerly 6′ 2″ body that compels me to watch her.

And watch her I do. Over and over again.

This week, I’ve been enjoying an early, black and white episode wherein she gives a champagne and coffee party in honor of:

“…the Queen of Sheba, which turns out to be this dark beauty, made of chocolate, and almonds, and rum, and butter!”

She then invites us into her kitchen where she promises we’ll make:

“the best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth.”

That’s one heavy promise, but I love her enthusiasm.

I decided to put my money where Mrs. Child’s mouth is (or was), and examine this cake and the woman behind it, however superficially.

And one or two other things, of course.

First, there is the name:

The Queen of Sheba

The legend of the Queen of Sheba can be found in both the Old Testament and the Qur’an. As a polytheist monarch of tremendous wealth and wisdom, she was intrigued by King Solomon of Israel, who was famous for his own wealth and wisdom, plus the odd little fact that he and his people worshipped only one god (1 Kings 10:1-13). She set off to visit him, laden with spices, gold, jewels, and a series of riddles to test his alleged wisdom. She was more or less awed by him, and he rather impressed with her. She returned to her southern Kingdom with “all that her heart desired”, including a new, solitary god.

Despite what the vampy costume of Betty Blythe might suggest in her 1921 epic The Queen of Sheba, most accounts suggest that the relationship between Solomon and herself were of a respectful, intellectual nature.

Most.

Unless you choose to believe the Ethiopians. They claim her as their own. In fact, the legitimacy of their nearly 3,000-year, dynasty was founded on the belief that Solomon gave her slightly more than gold and jewelry as a parting gift.

Whatever you choose to believe, it is clear why the “best chocolate cake you ever put in your mouth” was named after her– she was dark, rich, and sophisticated. A queen fit for the queen of cakes.

Of course, I couldn’t end it there. Not with Oscar season around the corner. Nor an obvious tangent staring me in the face.

Come Back, Little Sheba

One of the few vintage, Oscar-winning performances I have yet to see is that of Miss Shirley Booth’s turn as Lola Delaney in Comeback, Little Sheba from 1952. The dowdy, shuffling, and unambitious Lola and her husband “Doc” (played by Burt Lancaster) are 20 years into a loveless, shotgun marriage. The baby was lost and both find comfort in their own particular ways; he with alcohol, she with a little dog named “Sheba” on whom she lavishes all of her attention until it runs away from her, most likely from fear of emotional smothering.

And that’s before the film even begins. I won’t give the rest of the plot away, most likely since I have no idea what happens next. I’m hoping it’s some kind of sex comedy, but my hopes aren’t aimed too high, since films about deep regret and personal failings aren’t generally funny. Or sexy.

In stretching the limits of credibility, I have begun to think of this cake as somewhat appropriately linked to this film. Both are reportedly richly-layered, slightly crestfallen, alcoholic, and a bit nutty.

Almonds, you know.

Which leads to a warning to keep one’s logical stream-of-consciousness in check. Miss Booth may have won the Academy Award for her performance in Come Back, Little Sheba, but her biggest success came later as the star of the popular 1960’s situation comedy Hazel, in which she played the title role of a dictatorial-yet-endearing live-in housemaid.

Though critics have complained that the show was contrived and only “mildly amusing”, Hazel does have her die-hard fans, who are referred to as “hazelnuts”. Irritating, certainly.

The evident danger here is heaping too much honor upon Miss Booth by substituting the above-mentioned nuts for the traditional almonds, but that would be another cake entirely.

Little Shebas

I still intend to honor Miss Booth. Or at least the dog who had sense enough to run away from her emotionally-starved owner by making this major player in the classic repertoire of chocolate desserts into a minor figure size-wise, while still keeping the integrity of the classic recipe.

I have omitted the chocolate glaze used by many recipes, including Julia Child’s. I simply think it’s gilding an already-perfect lily. Oh, and I’m lazy. It is a rich cake, with a slightly gooey, warm center. More chocolate only makes it heavier. Still, I think it is a cake that would make its ancient namesake proud.

I doubt very much that Lola Delaney would have either the emotional wherewith all or even the equipment to make one herself, but Hazel would certainly find it easy to whip up for Mr. B when she wasn’t busy whipping the rest of his family into shape. And , chocolate glaze or no, I think Mrs. Child would still enjoy putting one in her mouth.

Sadly, this is not as popular a cake as it used to be. Chocolate trends of the past several years have lead to denser, darker, more chocolaty, chocolate cakes. The virtue of this cake is it’s balance of chocolate and nuttiness, with just a hint of rum underneath. As befitting a queen, it demands respect by virtue of its subtle complexity rather than by beating the palate with her sceptre. And that’s all too bad because I think this little Sheba is definitely ready for a comeback.

The following will make one large Reine de Saba in an 8-inch cake pan, or make six petite versions in a large (3 1/2-inch diameter) muffin tin. Comme tu veux.

Ingredients:

4 oz semi-sweet chocolate (bittersweet may be used, but I’m going the Child route here)
2 tablespoons rum or coffee
1/4 lb butter at room temperature
2/3 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar
3 egg, separated
2/3 cup finely ground almonds
1/4 tsp cream of tartar
1/4 tsp almond extract
1/2 cup cake flour, measured then sifted

Preparation:

Pre-heat oven to 350F and place rack in the middle.

1. Melt the chocolate and rum or coffee (choose your poison) in a pot set over simmering (not boiling, please) water, stirring to combine. Cover, turn off heat, and leave alone. You’ll come back to it later and it isn’t going anywhere. Cream the butter and 2/3 cup sugar together until pale yellow and fluffy. Beat in the egg yolks until paler and even fluffier than before. Add almond extract.

2. In a separate bowl, beat the egg whites on low-to-medium until foamy, then increase speed as you like, adding 1 tablespoon of sugar and 1/4 teaspoon cream of tartar until soft peaks form.

3. Return to your melted chocolate and giver her a little stir. The consistency should be somewhat satiny and fluid. Beat in a bit of butter/yolk mixture at a time, stirring constantly so the yolks do not curdle. Repeat until all is one.

4. Combine almond meal, flour, and salt. Now add this dry mixture to your chocolate goo, incorporating bits at a time. When this has been accomplished, gently fold in egg whites, starting with about 1/2 a cup and working the rest in ever so skillfully.

5. Immediately set to placing about 1/2 cup of your batter into each of the six muffin tins. Give her a good, hard bang or two on your kitchen counter to level and remove any bubbles in the batter. Bake for 12 minutes, then begin to peek into your oven obsessively until finished. A pale, chocolatey crust should form, but the cakes should jiggle a wee bit, too. Ideally, a toothpick inserted about an inch from the edges should come out dry, but one poked into the center should not. When this has been acheived, remove from oven and let cool for, oh, I don’t know, let’s say an hour, because you’ve got other things to do. When ready to remove from pan, run a sharp knife around the edges of the cakes, invert onto a tray, and you’re done.

Not exactly. At this point, you may either top them with a chcolate glaze or simply dust them with powdered sugar.

Serve them to friends at your upcoming Oscar party, or just feed them to your pets and watch their little hearts explode from the chocolate.

A Fine Case of Crabs.

Early this week, I received a rather frantic phone call from a friend of mine.

“Hi, I know I only call you when I need a favor…”, she said, which is entirely untrue.

“Do you know anyone who’d want a case of live crabs? Like, right now?” I was hoping she meant food-grade crabs. Not pthius pubis.

“I was going to send a case of Dungeness crabs to the East Coast, but that’s not happening anymore and I’m… well… I’m not going to touch them.”

I told her I didn’t know anyone off hand who would want them, but that I would post an alert on my Facebook page, since I’ve got at least a good 50 food freaks on my friends list who always seem to be online.

I hung up the phone.

And then I thought about it for a moment. Why would a food person (me) who loves crab, turn down a free case of them? Oh, because he’s a fool. And he was in the middle of enjoying a week-long battle with a stomach virus that had limited his food intake to baby food: bananas, crackers, rice, and Pedialyte.

I called her back about 90 seconds later to tell her I would be happy to take them off her hands, virus be damned. Besides, I had never experienced a crab boil. I thought it might be interesting.

When I lugged the case up the two flights of stairs to my apartment, I placed the box on my counter and stared at it for a long while before doing anything. How many crabs were there? How big were they? Would they be angry with me? Were they still alive?

I cut open the straps with the same scissors I would eventually use to cut open the crabs’ bodies and, feeling somewhat self-conscious of that fact, I quietly hid them out of sight before confronting the crabs themselves. Inside the box, I found a wriggling mass of wet newspaper and Koolit refrigerant packages, not, as I had hoped, a nest of local seaweed, which I would have considered much more appealing to the poor creatures.

I counted them as I peeled away the newspaper. Eight. Eight really large Dungeness crabs. Upon further examination, I noted that two were missing their front claws, another two had a broken, dangling hind leg, and one poor fellow had had his eye poked out. These were not A-list crustaceans. I re-covered them, placed them in the refrigerator, and said, almost inaudibly, “Goodnight, crabs. Sleep well, for I shall most likely kill you in the morning.”

And Then There Were Seven

When I woke the next morning, I pulled the box out of the fridge, set a large pot of salted water to boil, and examined my soon-to-be-cooked-alive friends. They barely stirred. My refrigerator, I thought, was too cold. I pulled them all out of the box and took a closer look. The littlest one which had, either by chance of packing or crab-imposed hierarchy, been found at the bottom of the pile, dead. I gave it a little nod and gently placed it in the garbage.

While waiting for the water to come to a rolling boil, I watched the seven surviving crabs slowly come to life, which seemed a waste of energy, given the fact that I was about to kill them in a matter of minutes. Still, it provided a bit of mild entertainment.

When the time came to boil the crabs, I realized it had been a very long time since I’d actively killed another living creature larger than an insect. I consoled myself with the realization that crabs are, in fact, tenuously related to insects. The classes Insecta and Crustacea are both members of Phylum Arthropoda, right? Armed with the theory that I was merely killing giant sea bugs, I set to work with an eased conscience. I very much doubt the crabs shared my opinion.

The killing was swift, but not the process. Two crabs per pot, boiling for approximately 10 minutes. One pot + seven crabs = forty minutes of standing around by myself, trying not to think about what I was doing.

My mind wandered to the other, far less pleasant to have, yet likely much-more-enjoyable-to-get, crabs.

A Brief Aside

When travelling the world in his younger days, a good friend of mine picked up a case of pthius pubis somewhere in Germany, which is, if you weren’t aware, a country in Europe that is, ironically, noted for its cleanliness. Not speaking the language, but in great discomfort, my friend marched into a chemist’s shop, took out a pen and paper, and proceeded to create a delightfully simple pictogram– something very similar to this:

He pointed to the drawing of the crab, then pointed to himself. He was immediately given the necessary materials for proper treatment.

I have always admired my friend’s straightforward communication skills. He has since come to make a good living off them.

When the slaughter was over, I was faced with seven big, orange-red, steaming crab  carcasses. Now what? Now nothing. I placed the crabs on a tray and shoved them back into the refrigerator, where they would no longer complain about the temperature. I had work to do. I had a therapy appointment at which I proceeded to discuss the fact that I had just taken the lives of seven fellow creatures.

Upon my return, I set to work upon the crabs. Slowly at  first, being rather inexperienced in the exercise of extricating edible meat from crustaceans. The scissors came out of hiding, as did a pair  of pliers, and a hammer. The hammer made a splattering mess when used, the pliers suffered from a chronic case of lockjaw, and I was remarkably, irritatingly frustrated.

What the hell was I doing? Standing alone in my kitchen, I felt absurd cleaning  the meat out of these damned crabs, but I was committed. I had a certain obligation to these creatures to see that their flesh was put to good use.

I have always thought that a crab boil was a social event, not one designed for a single man with a stomach virus standing alone over his sink. No beer, no butter, or  Thai seafood sauce. Just a guy in an apron and a pair of cargo shorts with crab matter all over his hands, forearms, and apron front.

I was determined that, when I felt better, I would go to town with the two pounds of crab meat I now had before me. Crab cakes, crab and corn chowder, crab salad, crab ice cream. Whatever it took to use it all up. It needed to be shared, not consumed in solitude.

I placed the crab in a gallon-sized Ziploc bag, removed as much air as possible, double-wrapped the bag in heavy duty aluminum foil, and placed it gently in my freezer, where it sits awaiting better times.

I look forward to a day in the near future when I can share it with my friends. But how? In my little apartment, a full-fledged dinner party is out of the question. But small gatherings with cocktails and nibbles are ideal. Shall I make tiki drinks to serve with a Crab Rangoon? Deviled Crab with dainty glasses of fino? Or a much more plebeian and fitting-for-the-times crab cakes and ice cold beer?

Whatever I decide, one thing is for certain. I’m going to share my crabs, and share them with people I love. They’ll thank me for it, I just know they will.

Facetime.

I’ve started a little (and, surprisingly, growing) Facebook page for this here blog:

Food for the Thoughtless on Facebook.

Why, you ask?

Because I would love to put a face to all of you nice people that take a little time out of your busy lives to sit still long enough and read me.

Really. Honest.

So if you’re the Facebook-y type, do stop by and click that little button. I’d love to see you as much as I love hearing from you.

And thank you very, very much for visiting.

Michael