The Yard Lobster

One summer day, my Appalachian husband and I were going to spend the day at my Mom’s house. My Mom is a woman who has also crossed the Mason Dixon to settle in Richmond, VA. She has a lovely little property with a creek in the back that used to be used for Copper Mining.

We had been having phone conversations about a plague that had taken over her yard: moles. Moles had been eating the roots of her rose bushes. Any New Yorker knows not to mess with a woman’s roses, especially a woman with Italian decent. Italians have an ability to take the smallest trifle and turn it into an erupting volcano of ferve¬¬nt curse words spewing from a mouth at maximum volume. Make sure when coming into the den of an angry Italian that you are armed with patience, ear muffs, and possibly a helmet if there is something that could be thrown within reach. 

When we pulled up to my Mom’s house, she was digging furiously on her hands and knees in the grass, her head bobbing up and down with effort. There were little dirt clumps flying in the air, landing in the grass among empty boxes of what I assumed was some sort of animal poison.

My husband, Brad, looked at me and says “What is your Mom doing?”

I shook my head. There are no words. Is she trying to dig the moles out?  I take a deep breath and decide to leave the safety of the car. I put on my game face, a calm smile, and said “Hi Mom!”

“It is not the moles!” she yelled out. “I think it is another problem. You are not going to believe what I found today!”

She stood up and motioned us to come look at something in the grass. As we walked up, she is pointed to little muddy mounds in the yard. My husband had a smirk on his face. I assumed that he knew what was coming, but I feared to ask. 

“I pulled this lobster out of one of those mounds!” my mom yelled, holding out her hands. I looked at what she was holding, and it really did look like a lobster, just much smaller.

“Mom, lobsters are in the ocean. It is some sort of shellfish for sure, but not a lobster,” I told her. 

Looking at my husband, I could tell he knew what it was because the smirk had grown wider and he was holding in a large amount of laughter.

“Yes, it is yard lobster,” Brad said, with sarcasm riddled through his expression.

My mom did not buy it. “It’s not a lobster?” 

“It is a sign that you have a wet yard,” Brad said. “Those are about just as tasty as a lobster, though.”

“So what is it?” I asked. 

Then, my southern knowledge shined through and I wished I had not asked. As my face lit up and I was about to tell her what it was, Brad told us, “It’s a crawdad. Sometimes it is called a crayfish.”

“Is this cray-dad-thing going to hurt my roses?” my Mom asked.

“Maybe the water level of the yard might drown your roses, but the crawdad itself won’t hurt them,” Brad said, ending the crawdad dig and continuing the mole hunt.

Therefore, northerners beware: When you find a lobster in your southern yard at the bottom of a muddy mound with a hole in it, it is called a crawdad. They won’t eat your roses, but when deep fried, they do make a tasty sandwich. 

-Billie

"The Armpit" Doesn't Boil Their Hotdogs?

Anyone who has visited the Outer Banks of North Carolina for summer vacation knows that one thing you can count on is a multitude of Northerners migrating down South.  It's because like most Northerners, they realize that the beaches in the South are simply the best (wink, wink Billie.)  Traveling down 95 South, 58, or 17, you can guarantee that you will always be traveling with a bevy of minivans and SUVs with New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania license plates.  I think they about outnumber actual residents during the summer months.

As we pulled into the little town of Emerald Isle, North Carolina our first thought was where to stop for a great lunch.  Traveling with two small kids, the goldfish and graham crackers were simply not sufficient especially when compared to the one of a kind eateries found on the island.  We spied the Highway 55 restaurant, notorious for their burgers, hot dogs and shakes and their 50s style dining experience.  If you're ever in North Carolina, stop there - it doesn't disappoint!  We pulled in and grabbed a booth.

As we sat down, my husband and I eyed each other and strategically planned how we would keep our two kids entertain lest they become "those kids" that every other table would whisper about.  Our fears were quickly calmed when a family from New Jersey filled the table behind us.  Truth be told, it was hard to even hear our children amidst the chatter (make that hollering) of that boisterous family!

While we were all waiting for our food we had to laugh at the conversation coming from their table - lots of chatter about their home state (no mention of it being "The Armpit" though), plans for the week, the eleven hour trip down, and a little banter about the small towns they passed on their way.  Though the real fun began when they got their food...

The waitress set down the three hot dogs that had been ordered.  Upon first glance, one of the women seemed horrified and she was trying to get her husband's attention without making a huge scene.  As soon as the waitress scurried away for ketchup, we overheard, "What in the world is with this hot dog?"

The statement caught our attention as some of us had ordered hot dogs as well so we glanced over.  What was on her plate was a perfectly normal looking RED hotdog.  Now, everyone south of the Mason Dixon line (and maybe a few other places) knows red hotdogs...they are the pride of every Southern Sunday picnic.  In fact, it can be argued with certainty that their taste is absolutely superior to that of any other hotdog.  We actually start to check temperatures when someone buys anything other than a pack of red hotdogs.  Valleydale...Carolina Pride...it doesn't matter, they are all a shrinkwrapped pack of absolute deliciousness. 

What makes this story such a hoot was her husband's response to her question about what exactly was wrong with her lunch.  Without missing a beat and seemingly very confident he replied, "Oh...you know, they boil their hotdogs down here, that's what makes them red."

What...the...heck?  Has the man every truly boiled a hotdog before?  Okay, besides the lacking grill marks, a boiled hotdog is light pink at the very best.  Never have I seen a hotdog turn red as a result of being boiled...never.  And down here we do eat a lot of hotdogs.  But his explanation was sufficient for her, as she devoured the thing in under two minutes.  I think it was probably the best darn boiled hot dog she has ever had.

~ Belle ~