![]() ![]() I still recall the round wooden crates arriving from the coast, stuffed with ice and living crabs feisty enough to climb out and face off with the adults, front claws tilted toward the ceiling. Gladys, a firm, deeply religious woman, cherished family, and our arrival triggered celebrations with dishes of jubilee, including, occasionally, fresh seafood. Those myths circulated during gatherings at my great-aunt Gladys’s house in Columbia. But my family’s tall tales kept me from indulging in the delicacy the rest of them salivated for: Callinectes sapidus, which translates to “beautiful savory swimmer,” otherwise known as the Atlantic blue crab. The mantra of catch, clean, and cook might as well be tattooed on my forehead. ![]() ![]() As the daughter of a farmer and avid fisherman, I have no issue coming face-to-face with my intended dinner. My seafood avoidance wasn’t about taste, though, but fear. ![]()
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