I’ve lived most of my life in Texas. I grew up in Austin, spent the last four years of college in Fort Worth, and plan to continue spending future years somewhere in the state. So naturally, I’m no stranger to the concept of a crawfish boil.
In theory, I understood the event — live shrimp-like creatures are boiled alive in a southern spice, dumped unceremoniously on a fold-out table, and promptly ripped apart by the many hands surrounding the pile of fish, potatoes, and corn. In reality, I never actually experienced one. The whole situation just seemed… unsanitary. Seafood wasn’t a huge part of my normal diet, and I had a strict rule against eating food that came with its eyeballs still attached. But college, especially senior year, is all about new experiences, right?
That’s right, this Texan had her first-ever crawfish boil this year. And not only did I attend it, I hosted the dang thing. It grew out of a challenge; could my three type-B friends successfully plan and execute a get-together without my help? I’d learn to let go and have a little faith, and they’d get to host their creepy crawfish in my backyard. Easy.
Months after the initial bet, 100 pounds of crawfish were bagged over ice on my porch. A bright purple tent was popped to combat the looming rain, corn was shucked and halved, potatoes were washed, and my friends and I suddenly faced the hardest part of the crawfish boil. Shockingly, it wasn’t the endless lists of to-dos, coordinating the cross-state transport of crawfish, or even learning how to eat it.
No, the scariest part of the crawfish boil was wondering if people would even show up. If they’d have fun. (If we were fun.)
We’d invited several people and planned for it, but the nerves in our stomachs still quivered. What if, after everything, this Saturday masterpiece boiled down to four of us in winter coats, standing in the grass, tackling 25 pounds of crawfish each?
An hour passed. Then two. And eventually, our Ring camera (not sponsored, but bless her) became witness to a thriving, crowded crawfish boil. A constant crew of hungry college kids flowed in and out of the house, mixing social circles, snapping pics, and hooking live crawfish onto their clothes. Many, like me, were participating in their first crawfish boil, courtesy of three Louisiana boys on a mission to impress their dads and share some of their culture with us. We stood in the cold, smiling and reeking of fish, absolutely mind-boggled at the process and utterly eager to join in.
I stood back after the first pour of steaming crawfish onto the table. I watched as friends — my friends — tore into the tails side by side. Elbows bumping, shoes sinking in the mud, not a care in the world for anything besides this moment.
I managed to eat four(?) crawfish, finding the potatoes and corn much preferable, but in the end, the actual food was just a conduit. The real magic of the crawfish boil was the community it created. My house was teeming with friendly faces, old and new, from my college years. We all reconnected, branched out, reminisced, and laughed. And when we finally came to terms with the fact that we still had too few bodies to consume the final dregs of crawfish, we went knocking on our neighbors’ doors, a feat we’d failed to attempt even once in the years we’d spent in our college apartment.
Everyone started texting friends of friends. Our neighbors turned out to be solid people (who knew?), and what began as a measly, gloomy afternoon bloomed into a six-hour lively affair of food, drinks, and conversation.
I can proudly say this crawfish boil was a massive success. Even the hours of rinsing coolers, sweeping grass, and mopping my floor couldn’t put a damper on the heart-warming day. We collapsed afterward, bone tired but beyond satisfied with the event.
Moral of the story: have a crawfish boil. Meet the people around you. Have silly, wholesome college moments that become core memories. Make friends from Louisiana (schematics). Try new things.