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Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

Bloodwood Wine Press

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

Stephen Doyle


Your typical crab is basically a pair of ragged claws; an armor-plated, hard-shelled and  spiky sort of a conveyance which spends quite a bit of its day keeping quite extensive areas of its thorny profile low in a protectively subdued type of environment quite close to, or preferably beneath the surface of all things. It rarely goes out at night, but when it does, it is more likely to be moving decisively but suspiciously sideways, particularly if physically or emotionally challenged.

In any case, unless you are patiently observant, you won't see the crab after dark even if it is, in its own careful and contained terms, "out". Crabs blend in with their submersive environment to an unremarkable degree however they are only ever really observable when they are "out" ; of their depth. I say "they", but in reality, there is usually only the one; complete, contained and silent. Your crab is basically a bullet-proof  after mid-night closed shop which leaves barely a trace even when scuttling across the floors of silent seas;  it does not mourn the vanished power of the usual reign sliding backwards, ever backwards beneath the protective surface of all things.

Unless, and here's the thing, unless you stand perfectly still and stare deep into their bony eyes. You'll find this be-stalked perceptive device perfectly symmetrically protected between mechanically powerful outstretched limbs. Two all-seeing eyes, two all-clutching claws, one existential choice; for you.  Look deep into those beady, opaque pins and you'll be embraced within defensive arms which will caress or crush you within their protective circumference. Discover all the compartmentalized and juicy tenderness beneath their crusty shells, be absorbed into their very essence and you'll be protected forever.

You may never see sunlight again but you will never want for warmth.

Unless, of course you are allergic to crustaceans. If you're not, it's just a matter of catching a couple of muddies, jabbing them up the jacksy (or carefully bisecting them neatly with a meat cleaver) and walking out into the sea in which you caught them. Break off the amour-plated , hard-shelled carapace, bony opaque eyes, gills, mustard and anything else that disturbs your personal culinary aesthetic, give the carcass a good  salty wash and place it on a microwave proof dish, powerful outstretched limbs on the outside and compartmentalized  juicy tenderness towards the inside of that slowly rotating plate. Cover the dish with kitchen paper or cling wrap which you have stabbed viciously a few times with a fork to let some of the steam out and zap their salty crustiness for nine minutes.

Ingredients: Two fat Mud Crabs and the Collected Poems of T.S.Eliot, 1909-1962. That's your lot.

Serve with the suitably embracing and carefully contained Bloodwood 2016 Riesling and sing, SING, SING, SING!!