Crabs.

Hooboy. Here we go again. More piss poor food photography.

Stick with me.  I’m fairly sure it’ll get better.

Anyway. I feel sorry for everybody else in the  country that can’t have Chesapeake Bay blue crab. From what I understand they’re indigenous to us which means ya’ll don’t get any. And honestly, in an age of refrigeration and airplanes I  don’t know why that is, but so sorry.

Sucks to be you.

A typical feast is a big bag of jimmies (male crabs), a bowl of melted butter (HI mr. heart attack), and a bowl of spicy vinegary sauce (HOWDY  mr. stroke) for dipping.

And, of course, lots of cold, cold, ooh baby, cold beer.

Eating blue crab is amazingly athletic, full of tearing crusty bodies apart, ripping out internals, and yanking off legs and claws and beatin’ em with mallets. But the meat of the matter, the stuff you finally get to with bloody fingers, is what dreams and adolescent pregnancies are made of. Especially the back fin.

Honest. It’s that good. And that worth it.

When you steer a big fat back fin lollipop dripping with hot melted butter towards your gaping maw you can just feel the benign goodness that is the whole world smiling on you and wanting you to be happy forever.

Really.