The other day I began what I hope will be an annual tradition. I attended a friend’s Mudbug Hot Tubbing party. What a blast. There must have been 70 people crammed in to her back yard, each one nicer than the last.
No, we weren’t sitting in hot tubs, thank God. Given that everyone was pretty much in my age range, for the most part that wouldn’t have been attractive. No, the hot tubs were strictly reserved for the mudbugs.
Don’t know what a mudbug is? Then you haven’t lived, Buddy-roo. Back in my old Florida stomping grounds, we called them crawfish, but you might know them as crayfish, crawdads, or freshwater lobsters. Whatever you call ‘em, they’re freakin’ delicious. Especially if you suck the head. (Oh, but I do.)
I used to pluck them out of the creeks when I’d go to the mountains of North Carolina, so I didn’t really need the lesson on how to devour them. I’m an old hand. But I really never expected to encounter them again now that I’ve moved to the Pacific Northwest. My friend had them flown in live for this event.
Everyone who attended brought side dishes, so there was a wide variety of food to go with the bugs, and a good time was had by all. The vast majority of the people in the crowd were musicians and/or writers, so it was quite an expressive and fun group. I met a lot of interesting people.
The musicians were getting their music on in the music room, and the talent was varied and outstanding. I hope the neighbors agreed. I’m sure they were taken aback if they peeked over the fence during the tinfoil hat contest. Oh well.
I was kind of hoping to meet the man of my dreams (I tend to always hope that), but everyone seemed to be paired off and/or spoken for. That’s probably best. It allowed me to carry on a nostalgic love affair with the crawfish, and they didn’t judge me, even once, for ripping their little heads off.
Mmmm, mmm, good.