I've got crabs!

Ah!  Dinner at one of my favorite places.  Crabs on the beach.  That is the name of the restaurant, not a description of crustaceans in the sand. The hostess seated us at a nice table with a beautiful view of Casino Beach.  I carefully perused the menu, agonizing over which crab platter I should eat, finally deciding to have them all.  I ordered a delicious platter of ten blue crabs and a whole dungeoness crab.

Now, you must understand two things.  First, I am a crabaholic.  I love the stuff and could eat it all day.  Second, blue crabs come uncleaned.  They charge a fortune for them and then make you clean them yourself. It might bother some people, but I am not squeemish about it.  The waitress hesitantly asked me if I had ever had blue crab before, explaining with trepidation that they come uncleaned and can be quite a lot of work to eat, but they would show me how it was done.   No, I had not eaten blue crabs, but I had eaten red crab in Oregon and I figured they were pretty much the same thing.  Red, blue, they are all salmon after you cook them and they all look the same on the inside.  She donned her latex gloves to give me a demonstration on how to clean and eat these little delicacies.  I politely watched and let her finish her show.  She had no way of knowing that a little girl from Idaho knew very well how to eat these crabs.  Once she was done and had left the table shaking her head at all the crab that lay in front of me, I tackled the first crab.  It was a male. How you cleaned them depended on their sex if you can imagine. (I'm sure you can.)

Jay watched in horror as I deftly grabbed it's, you know, and ripped it from the shell.

Then I viciously, with an evil grin, tore the shell from it's lifeless body, ripped off it's lungs, and scraped out it's innards.  I tossed them wildly into the bucket sitting on the table for my scraps.  Jay was glad he was wearing his rain coat as he was splattered with crab juice and flying entrails.

I looked around at the other restaurant patrons sitting by us and they were all staring at me with that same opened mouthed awe and revulsion that Jay was.  I just sat there with crab juice and butter dripping from my chin and elbows, cracking shells and sucking the tender meat out of the legs and claws with my mouth.  It was incredible to watch, I don't care who you are.  

Eleven crabs later I was smacking my lips, Jay was wiping the flying pieces of crab and juice from his rain coat and handing me wet wipes.  I was wiping my face and squeezing lemons on my hands as the waitress gathered up the aftermath of crab shell carnage.  I walked out of the restaurant with my head held high.  I nodded and smiled at the man sitting behind me as he sat with his own platter of blue crabs.  He got his plate before me.  His wife had left the table and he was alone.  I swear I saw a gleam of respect in his eye as I passed by, but I can't prove it.  My husband is not grossed out by my behavior, although he probably should be, but this is why I married a Southern Redneck.  Tonight I will sleep well with dreams of crabs and melted butter floating in my head.