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| Grandma Brown of Newark, N.J. sautéed a secret blend of spices for her steamed crabs.Jennah Quinn for New Jersey Food Journal |
By Jennah Quinn
Saturday mornings at Grandma Brown’s house in Newark were a lazy mix of pajamas and cartoons, until you ventured into the kitchen and were greeted with an overwhelming crispy spice that conquered the fresh air. It was a slap in the face, not by a hand, but from the paralyzing smell of Grandma’s blue crabs drowning in Old Bay Seasoning as they steamed on the stove. The secret to this recipe rests in her sole possession. Adjacent to the noisy crabs was a petite frying pan sautéing almost an entire stick of butter along with various carefully selected spices. That we would call our dipping sauce.
I always sat in the kitchen observing Grandma as she confidently shuffled from one side of the stove to the other. When it was time for the feast, she gathered everyone into the dining room. Most of us squeezed into the circular kale-colored booth in the far right corner, others scattered around the room, plates piled high with spiced crabs and a side of her smooth buttery blend.
Every crab feast, Grandma sat with us kids in the booth. She’d show us how to crack open the crabs one by one to find the juiciest cut of meat. At 9, my hands were delicate. Grandma cracked the shells for me while I dug around for meat.
“I never imagined a Saturday where I wouldn’t
be in Grandma’s kitchen watching her prepare her secretive crabs. Although she
does not prepare them anymore, she refuses to give up her recipe.”
I was always squeamish when handling the crabs, somehow
believing they were still alive. Grandma would always show them to me before
they went in the pot to face their steamy demise. I felt sorry for the crabs, until I remembered how heavenly they would taste.Together Grandma and I would stumble across both the hearty white crabmeat and the not-so-appetizing slimy and over-seasoned crevices. I easily passed on those parts. Looking back, they may have been Grandma’s favorites. She laughed as I passed all of my scraps her way, suckling down the raw blend of spices dipped in buttery bliss. She was pleased to clean up the leftovers the younger kids left behind, always discovering the hidden treasures we’d missed.
As a young girl I never imagined a Saturday where I wouldn’t be in Grandma’s kitchen watching her make her secretive crabs. Although she does not prepare them anymore, she refuses to give up her recipe. That makes me appreciate, even more, the authenticity and the unique assault of flavor poached into her crabs.
Even the nooks and crannies, which I once viewed as sour, I’ve grown to love. I now understand the delicacy of a crab. Today I sit at my mom’s kitchen table as a scavenger on the hunt for meat. I dig into every inch, breaking leg by leg and ripping the crab open joint by joint. Grandma never gave up her secret, but we laugh as my mom genuinely tries to mimic the recipe. I’ve learned so much from my Grandma, from all of her lessons, but, above all, the unspoken ones. Even though the tradition of having crabs at Grandma’s has been lost, I like to think she knows that I’ve come to love all the parts, as she taught me.
Jennah Quinn is a junior majoring in journalism at Rutgers University.
