Illustration: Tatjana Junker
When I was young, my cousins went crabbing almost every day during the summer. My mother and godmother, who rented a Shore house together, would freeze the cleaned catch and turn that treasure into crab sauce each Sunday. Now, I do it once a year, usually on Labor Day weekend, but on a much grander scale; at one party, 22 of us devoured 58 blue crabs and 6 pounds of spaghetti.
For me, making that crab sauce is about more than cooking; it’s a way to honor my parents, who gave me the priceless gift of Lavallette, the Shore town where I’ve spent practically all of my summers.
Crab sauce (or gravy) is a variation of the Italian classic sugo di granchio, which has been adapted to incorporate the blue crabs found off the coast of the mid-Atlantic states. These beauties infuse the sauce with a deep, sweet, briny flavor that no other ingredient can replicate.
Since I’m not the crabbing type, I buy the stars of the meal (unless friends catch some) and then kill, clean and freeze them. Unlike Maryland-style steamed blue crabs, these crustaceans are prepped before they’re cooked.
Oddly, I enjoy the process of crab-icide, and the knack for it runs in the family; my teenage niece and nephew have become experts under my tutelage. But the cleaning? That’s still my job—at least for now.
On the big day, I send my family to the beach so that I can have the kitchen to myself. Louis Prima (my dad’s favorite) sings as I chop onions and garlic. I sauté them in olive oil in a huge pot, then stir in the crushed tomatoes, wine, basil, parsley, oregano, red pepper flakes and salt. When the sauce comes to a boil, in go the thawed crabs.
Soon, that unmistakable aroma fills the air while the sauce simmers on the stove for hours.
The feast’s setup is as familiar as the food each year: folding tables draped with disposable tablecloths in my condo’s parking lot. (I have neither the space nor the desire to host this shindig indoors.) Foil pans with the crabs, bowls of extra sauce and Romano cheese, baskets of crusty bread for dipping, and cracking tools crowd the dining table. Numerous bottles of wine and the huge pot now filled with the cooked spaghetti tossed in the sauce sit on a snack table nearby.
We use paper bowls and plastic utensils for easy cleanup and go through lots of napkins and paper towels; eating blue crabs is gloriously messy. (Don’t wear white!)
Not everyone loves the work involved in extracting crabmeat from the shell, though. My father never had the patience; my godmother would fry meatballs on the side for him. One of my usual guests brings lump crabmeat, which I toss with sauce for her and other like-minded diners. But for me, the effort is part of the joy.
And so, as summer fades, I gather my people, roll up my sleeves and get cracking on a spread that ties me to my past, my family and my roots.
As long as there are blue crabs in Barnegat Bay, there will be crab sauce on my table. And as long as there is crab sauce, there will be laughter, stories and tradition—messy, delicious and utterly perfect.
Jo Ann Liguori is a writer and editor who spends the summer in Lavallette, lives in Brooklyn the rest of the year, and can be found all the time on Instagram @AuntJoCooks.
