Miss-Da Crabs

Dressed crabIf ever you think you’ve got a kid into a groove – you’re certain to find yourself sadly mistaken (the little buggers really love to keep you on your toes).

Take crabs – the kind you catch and eat, not catch and itch.

Ted’s been bit-champing keen to try crab and I’ve been equally eager not to cook one. My Grandfather was mad for crabs and we always had to bring him back a fresh one if we went within sniffing distance of a seaside.

Grandad was a skilled cook of traditional Yorkshire fayre. Many times, he demonstrated the prepping and cooking of crab. But, as I’ve always been a pussy when it comes eating seafood, I only ever watched – wincing – through one half-open eye.

On a recent trip to Anglesey with friends, Ted and I headed to Stanley Butchers in Beaumaris and bought a dressed crab. “The crab box will be ticked without me having to even touch it,” methought. Methought wrong.

Child eating crab clawWe unwrapped the crab – I saw what was coming, but hoped against hope. The brown meat of a crab is mushy soft – an unacceptable texture on Ted’s list – and there was way more brown meat than white.

God, that boy tried harder than I’ve yet seen him try to like something. Usually one lick of the tongue on a green bean and it’s straight back out. But four or five, hard-fought, mouthfuls in, Ted confessed: “I only like the claws and the meat, not the mush.”

So, poor Mr Crabs languished largely uneaten, though his claws were greatly appreciated.

I’m rueing the day I told Ted that Great Grandad Jack showed me how to cook crab – the pestering’s started already. I’ve just looked up crab-cooking on Delia – frankly, I’m bricking it…

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