She likes to pick crabs; I don’t. Don’t get me wrong: I have nothing against the feisty little crustaceans; I like them well enough in a creamy soup or an eponymous cake, but picking them? The juice just doesn’t seem worth the squeeze to me. I guess it’s just a Maryland thing, hon.
To me, picking crabs (or, in my case, peeling shrimp) is just an excuse; it’s finger-fiddling. Let’s be honest: isn’t the main point of a crab extravaganza really more about the butter and the beer, the fresh yellow corn and ripe red tomatoes, the juicy watermelon chaser? And, of course, picking crabs is not simply an exercise in eating and drinking—the stuff of sustenance. Picking crabs is just another excuse for friends to gather around a messy paper-covered table on a sunny summer afternoon to swap stories, tell jokes, or reminisce in good company. It’s how we honor each other.
At a crab feast, she knows exactly what to do: what to pound with a mallet, when to pry with a knife, how to rend with her fingers. I’m more of an outlier, an observer. I’m mesmerized by her manners and expertise, as well as by her savoir-faire in crab-related customs and strategies. For instance, at a recent gathering, I noted that most everyone at the table was a picker, but there was one person who was a “piler.” He didn’t immediately eat what he picked; Instead, he made a great pile of all his crabmeat, then devoured it when he was good and ready. It was a different way of doing business, a methodology that called for plenty of patience and a wary regard for his table neighbors who were eyeing his great stack of succulent meat like hungry cats ready to pounce on a mouse.
Which brings me to this thought: could it be that the world is made up of just two types of people: pickers and pilers? Pickers deal in getting things done quickly—the plunder and pillage approach to life. Eat it now; it won’t last til tomorrow. Pilers, on the other hand, are savers.They like to amass their wealth whether that wealth is counted in fancy guitars (that’s what this particular friend collects) or crabmeat. Pilers bide their time, waiting for just the right moment to enjoy the fruits (or crabmeats) of their labors.
They say there is a science to picking a crab: a right way to do it. But I’ve come to the conclusion that crab-picking is more art than science. And pilers know that it’s about knowing the finer things in life must be savored before they’re consumed because (to paraphrase Joni Mitchell) you can’t appreciate what you’ve got if it’s already gone.
I’ll never be a picker so I guess that leaves me with no choice: like the lone guest at our table, I’m a piler. Little by little, I’ll build my legacy, watching it grow until it either gets top-heavy and topples over, or it’s purloined by all those greedy pickers who don’t have the foresight to store up what they’ll need to make it to their next meal.
I’ll be right back.
