Crawfish

The first time I saw a crawfish, it was with my dad. I always tagged along on his fishing trips. He was a different kind of man as he stood at the Sacramento River's bank, patient and serene. I like the feel of a fishing rod in my hands, but I could not stand putting a worm through the hook. So, my dad taught me to crawfish.

A piece of chicken fat dangled on a slender tree branch. Small red pincers emerged from the crevices. Holding steady, I would be able to catch 3 or 4 to take home as my prized bounty. For a seven-year-old, the crawfish was a magnificent mini-lobster.

Moving to Irving was moving closer to crawfish country. No one catches crawfish singly and crawfish is eaten in 5lb trays. However, it is at St. Peter's that this little cousin of the lobster (on the evolutionary tree) wields its power.

Over 3000 pounds are bought for the Crawfish Festival. Crews work into the dawn to wash the crustaceans and boil it to perfection in orange juice and butter. Lanterns line the gym. Games abound for the little ones. Eating competitions are anticipated eagerly, complete with beachcomber straw hats for participants.

Families sat at tables, pulled at the shell animal's tails, and told stories. Friends stopped by to exchange jokes and jibes. The Sweet Spot booth offered tantalizing chocolate fondue and tropical sorbet for a change of palate.

Energy filled the space.
Chị Phượng, the parish's pastoral council president, waited on tables.
Anh Linh, the parish's worship leader, watched the pots.
Dozens of others hovered in the background.

Sơ Huyền ate contentedly amidst the bustle.
10 pounds and two eating races.
I had three.

One to keep Sơ Huyền company.
One to do honor for the fish that brings a parish together.
And one for my dad.