I should know by now that the rules that apply to other people have no impact on me. These aren’t the “Thou Shalt Not” kind of rules but the little things like: “If you do thus-and-such you will be successful at” whatever it is that the thus-and-such is designed to accomplish. There are probably many reasons for this but the top two seem to be that 1) the Universe has it in for me and 2) that I can’t resist screwing with the procedures specified by thus-and-such.
But, as documented here on numerous occasions, that doesn’t seem to stop me from trying.
Witness my recent foray into sauerkraut making. Despite the thus-and-such being very specific about the volume of sauerkraut – one gallon – which would result from my four pounds of cabbage, I went ahead and crammed it all into a half-gallon jar and set it about fermenting.
Well, at least the jar didn’t explode.
What did happen was that the expanding kraut displaced all of the fermenting brine. This left me with a very tightly packed wad of half-processed cabbage which, while not actually being a road-killed opossum, sure smelled like one.
Fortunately there’s more cabbage ready to be harvested.
The problem all stemmed from the mention of a “kraut pounder” in the recipe. The purpose of a kraut pounder is to pack the cabbage in its fermentation vessel so that it is completely covered with brine. It is not – as I learned – designed to pound the cabbage so hard you increase its density to that of lead. So rather than believing the directions and only half filling two jars leaving plenty of room for expansion, I went ahead and crushed it all into one.
Live and learn, eh?
Not if you’re me.
My most recent foray into an activity guaranteed to fail if you’re me and destined to succeed if you’re not began a few weeks ago on a trip up to the farmer’s market in Port Townsend, Washington. Port Townsend is one of those eclectic reinvented towns which determined that the wreckage along Water Street resulting from the collapse of the local fishing industry was a salvageable “historic district” whose weathered stone facades were just begging to be filled with curio, souvenir, and tattoo shops to cater to the cash-packed masses bored with what little Seattle has to offer. But it does have – unique to the region – a well-stocked and reasonably priced Saturday farmers’ market, the Sweet Laurette Cafe – home of the tasty but politically incorrect Dutch Baby brunch item, and a killer town motto: “We’re all here because we’re not all there.”
Which pretty much sums it up.
After the market and brunch we decided to take a stroll through the “historic district” and see if we could find a new shot glass inscribed with the aforementioned motto. My previous jigger – a pirate themed thing demanding you to “Surrender the Booty!” – had shattered when the cats decided to see what would happen if they threw it onto the concrete floor. After browsing through endless shops and coming up empty we wandered down to one of the public piers and happened to glance into a fisherman’s bucket.
Dungeness crabs. Big ones.
“Wow,” I said.
“Yup,” he said. “Caught the limit in about a half-hour.”
We sidled over to the next crab-packed bucket. More Dungeness and some Red Rock crabs.
“Is that…?”
“You bet. Filled the thing in an hour.” He shook his head. “Kind of a slow day though.”
Just beyond sat a small child, maybe two years old, in a stroller; apparently unattended and just parked there holding a bright red line. At the end of the line was a float and next to the stroller was a bucket. She looked up at me and smiled.
“I got my wimmett!”
All the way home I couldn’t stop thinking about crabs. Although I knew there were crabs in the local waters, up until now I had no idea how easy they were to catch.
Which should have been my first warning.
After we planted the stevia plant we bought at the farmers’ market I went online and started researching the whole crab thing. Apparently the bottom of Puget Sound is paved with crabs. There are so many it’s possible – as it used to be with lobsters back east – to walk along the shore and pluck them from their watery home. There are all sorts of crabs – box crabs, king crabs, kelp crabs, graceful carbs, graceful decorator crabs (which sounds kind of redundant), etc. – but the two of gustatory interest are the Dungeness and Red Rock crabs. It was reasonably cheap to start the crab acquisition. I only needed a license – $25 at Walmart, and a net – $26 on Amazon. The bait was already in the freezer in the form of some lovely salmon filets.
I was set. I was psyched. I was ready to pull in the bucketsful of crabs that would normally cost over ten-bucks each at the store. One daily limit would more than pay for the license, gear, and bait. This was going to be great!
As an aside. I’m not much of a crab eater. They tend to be messy to catch, cook, and clean. The shells will open up your hand like a scalpel if you’re not careful. And you will smell like low tide for a fortnight after you scrape the pitifully small ration of meat from the carapace. Plus there’s all this high yuck-factor goo on the inside that will leave you scratching your head as you ponder what the Creator might have been thinking when he-or-she decided to squeeze that inside the shell. Typically we get crab to make soup in the winter and it usually comes from a can which has been shipped here from some low-hourly-wage coastal community in Southeast Asia. However, this past winter, opening a can to discover a couple of heretofore un-revealed tufts of fur has led me to believe that a different option was called for.
But the soup was good.
Anyway. I packed up my license, gear, and bait and tossed the lot into the back of the truck and headed out to Bainbridge Island’s Point White Park which consists of a third-acre parking lot and a pier. Out on the pier two other crabbers were packing up to go home. They had only caught two crabs but a call from the water interrupted our conversation.
“Does anybody want a crab?” There were two people in a small rowboat and they had gotten their ten crab limit (five each) and needed to find a steamy home for an extra.
“Sure,” said one of the departing crabbers.
I rubbed my hands together in glee. The pier now mine alone, I stuffed the bait into the net, cast it out into the water, and waited. Fifteen minutes later, I hauled it in. A couple of baby crabs and a starfish. I cleaned them out of the net and tossed it again. And waited. This time there was fifteen pound sunflower seastar – think a cross between a starfish and a jellyfish with an extendable stomach for feeding – in the net. But no crabs.
Three hours later, my bait gone, I gave up. The haul for the day was about eight baby crabs. I got skunked.
The next day I was back at it. Crabbing in Puget Sound is restricted to Thursday through Monday during the season and it was Monday. So I had to make good. I rushed over to the pier, tossed out the net, and waited the requisite fifteen minutes. This time when I hauled the net it was packed with crabs. They were all too small to keep but the sheer numbers were encouraging. Another cast. Another nothing. And then.
Paydirt. A bigger-than-legal red rock crab. And then, on my last cast of the day, another.
Dinner at last.
I rushed home, filled the pot with water, and boiled up the crabs. (At least they don’t scream like the lobsters do.) I cleaned them – avoiding major injuries – and then went out to the garden to pick some veggies. This was the result.
Yu-um!
So now it’s Thursday and the crabbing is open again. I’ve got my fresh bait. I’ve got my gear. I’m ready to go. I even know why I got shut out last Sunday and did okay on Monday.
On Monday I remembered to bring my lucky charm.