Nothin' Says Lovin' Like Somethin' From The Swamp

The great thing about summer weekends around here, is the abundance of both family and food.  Really, it's a wonder any of us fit into bathing suits, which we must, or risk withering in the summer heat.  But last weekend was a doubly special occasion, because not only were we hanging out around the pool with the whole family, we were doing it for a reason: my parents' 30th anniversary!

30 years.  It sounds amazing when booted right up against my own 7 years from a few weeks ago, right?  But my mom and dad are special and besides that, they love to throw a good party.  Their idea of a party, though, is somewhat different than mine.  We'd both include lots of food and friends and family, but here's what they'd include:

Louisiana crawfish.  (Crawdads, to us country-folk.)  Thirty pounds of them.  I think they were well-received by the party-goers, even though my delicate tastes were offended by their creepy animalistic shape and smell.  But I do understand that most people actually like shellfish, so it was really fun.  I just kept darting around to capture the fascination of a crawfish boil, while wrinkling my nose in distaste.  I'm sure I was a wonderful guest!

There were two long tables laid out with crawfish that had been boiled with potatoes, corn on the cob, and mushrooms in some special Louisiana spice blend.

Justin was brave -- or at least open-minded -- while I stayed back.  Little Lauren was interested in the claws until she popped one in her mouth and tasted the spicy seasonings, at which point her face screwed up and she started making gagging noises in the back of her throat.  She proved my refusals worthwhile.  (Yes, it's usually a bad idea to take food advice from a 2 year old, but in this case, some loosening of ideals was warranted so I could stay away from the crawdads.  I'm a shellfish-wuss.)

This was as close as Mia got to the crawdads: some tactile discovery, then a polite return of the once-crawling thing to its owner's hungry hands.

I think this one was still trying to talk to me.  It had a French-Creole accent, if there is such a thing. Oh, ma petit fille, come closer to moi....I'm tres fantastique!

But I knew he was a tricky sweet-talker.  I went to sit on this guy's lap, instead. 

And I'll stay there for at least the next 30 years.