Crabs

 Maryland crabs steamed in Old Bay.  That was my father's delicacy.  Forget caviar or a gigantic ribeye steak.  Forget champagne or some hard to find spirit.  Give my dad all you can eat Maryland crabs and cold beer and life could hardly get any better.

He could sit and pick crab for hours and not get tired.  You see, picking crabs is a social affair, or it should be.  Maybe that was what he loved about it since Daddy could talk.

One of the places I remember going for all you can eat was a little place called The Cracked Claw. In time, I would work there.  My first real job beyond babysitting and my newspaper route that Daddy insisted I have.  I was the salad bar girl.  Basically I set up and took down the salad bar when I worked.  I was in charge of coving the tables with brown paper that spooled of a metal mount on the wall and I was in charge of busing the same tables once they were littered with carcasses, empty drawn butter dishes, and all of the tools used specially for the affair.

I was also permitted to help out the waitresses in bringing in more crabs to tables who were ready and demonstrating how to pick a crab to anyone needing a demonstration. My sophomore year, I even did my demonstration speech for class on "How to clean a crab." 

It was a great job.  I loved it.  And sometimes, family would come while I worked to pick crab and sit a spell.   That's what my grandmother might call it.  Basically, Daddy would come and eat.  Mom would get her crab cakes or something else.  I do not recall her picking crab, but maybe she did. But crab cakes anywhere other than in Maryland are not real crab cakes.  It's true.  ask any Marylander.  

I can remember one of my favorite stories from when they were young.  My mom's brother always camped down at the beach with his family.  And depending on the storyteller, It was either his camper or her father's.  I honestly have no idea whose it was, but I know it was not theirs.

Mom and Dad, and maybe me as a baby, went down to visit the happy campers at the beach and Daddy went crabbing with someone in the family.  After the crabs had been caught, they carried their baskets of caught critters back to the campsite and promptly spilled them into the camper.  Without the basket.  To scramble all about the floor of the camper. To the delight of those outside.  And the terror of my mother inside.  To hear the story told, it is actually pretty funny.  Mom even laughs telling it and then scowls, "Your father thought he was so funny."

After we moved away, there was only one place that had Maryland style crabs.  Ozzie's was quite the drive but the crabs were pretty darn close to what we could get at Cracked Claw. Several years after Daddy fell ill, my now ex-husband and I decided we would try and take Daddy here for his birthday.  We had no idea how it would go because at this point Daddy had both good and bad days and some of the bad days were pretty bad.

The entire ride, which was not as quick as taking him to get Chinese food or pizza like he was used to, he would nervously ask us questions. "Are you sure you want to do this?" "Do you think we are almost there?" "Are you sure they will have crabs like home?"  I could tell he was very uncomfortable being out of his element and away from the assisted living facility he called home. I began to worry if this great idea of mine was going to turn out to be a terrible idea.

We arrived just after opening and the restaurant was far from being full or having a line to get in like was usual later in the afternoon and in the evening.  And while we planned it this way, for Daddy, this made him more nervous. "I bet they are not busy because they don't have any today."  And for a short moment, my heart ached, and I wondered. What if he is right and we brought him all this way for nothing???

On the outside I was positive and assured my father that either way we were here to stay.  We were here to celebrate his birthday.  

We sat ourselves, as the sign requested.  Tables covered in brown paper.  Good sign.  Roll of paper towels on the table.  Looking better. And the smell was perfect.  But having worked in a crab shack, there could be not a crab in a pot and the place would still smell like spices and crab.

Within moments our waiter arrived.  Daddy was quiet as I informed him that we were here for the crab.  Without a pause, the waiter asked what size and how many we wanted. 

There it was.  A grin.  Then he ordered an unsweet tea since he could no longer have the sugar.  I ordered the ex and I a pitcher of beer.

Drinks arrived.  Then the crabs.  And they looked just like they should. And momentarily my father began to relax.  He began to chat and tell us stories including the one about my mom and the camper.  Most of the stories I had heard before, but it did not matter.  We talked and picked and sat a spell and it was almost like I had my dad back. It was the first time that this had happened, although it would occur from time to time over the years.

He was light.  He was clearer. He was present. The stories were ones from long ago because those were the things that he could only recall these days, but the stories flowed.

Somewhere between the third or fourth tray of crabs we refilled our pitcher.  We were sipping rather than chugging.  We had a long drive home.  

But it was when the waiter returned and asked Daddy if he wanted a refill of tea that he bravely said no.  He wanted a cold glass and was going to have himself a beer.  My ex stared at me unsure if he should intervene because my father no longer drank.  He hadn't since he gotten sick.

I looked at my dad.  I looked at my ex.  I looked at the waiter and knew what to say.

"Great idea. Can we all get new cold glasses this round please?"

With that, we went back to our crabs and back to his stories and for one afternoon, for a few hours, life with my dad was normal thanks to the crabs.