Crab Salad Pockets

August arrives, and the transitions stack: James begins law school orientation next week, Carrie leaves for Kyoto in six weeks, and the house prepares, once more, to contract — from three to two, Naomi and Robert and Mama, the irreducible core, the household that cannot get any smaller unless someone is lost, and the unless is the fear I do not name because naming it would give it weight, and the weight is already enough.

James moved to Columbia last week for good — the permanent move, the law school apartment, the life that begins now and that will not return to this house except as visits. I helped him unpack. I stocked his kitchen with the basics: rice, grits, the spice rack from my pantry that I duplicated because a Simmons-Blackwood man needs a properly stocked spice rack even if the most ambitious thing he cooks is scrambled eggs. Elise was there, helping, arranging, the two of them moving through the small apartment with the choreography of two people who have practiced being in the same space and who have found the rhythm.

Robert drove me home from Columbia, and we drove in silence — not the uncomfortable silence but the digesting silence, the silence of two parents who have just delivered their son to the next phase of his life and who need the miles between Columbia and Charleston to process the delivery. The processing took the entire drive. By the time we reached the historic district, the processing was complete: James is gone. James is a man. James is where he should be. The should-be is the peace.

Mama was waiting in the kitchen — not consciously waiting, but sitting in her chair in the kitchen where she always sits, and the sitting was the waiting, and the waiting was the home, and the home was the three of us, Robert and Naomi and Mama, the smallest number that still constitutes a family.

I made shrimp and grits — James's dish, made in his absence, the dish that says "he is not here but he is with us" in the language of cream and stone-ground grits and the shrimp that taste like the harbor he grew up beside.

I had planned shrimp and grits — I always plan shrimp and grits on the nights that need it — but the hour was later than I thought and the kitchen felt too quiet for a long cook, so I reached for something that still carried the harbor in it, still tasted like James’s city and his childhood and the water we grew up beside. These crab salad pockets came together in the time it took Robert to pour two glasses of wine, and we ate them at the kitchen table with Mama, the three of us, small and whole and enough.

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

8 oz lump crab meat, drained and carefully picked over for shells
3 tablespoons mayonnaise
2 tablespoons plain Greek yogurt
2 stalks celery, finely diced
2 tablespoons red onion, finely diced
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Salt to taste
4 whole wheat pita rounds, halved to form pockets
4 leaves romaine lettuce
1 medium tomato, thinly sliced

Instructions

Make the crab salad. In a medium bowl, combine the crab meat, mayonnaise, Greek yogurt, celery, red onion, lemon juice, Old Bay, and black pepper. Fold gently so the crab stays in pieces. Taste and adjust salt as needed. Refrigerate for 5 minutes if you have the time — it brings the flavors together.
Warm the pitas (optional). Wrap the pita halves in a damp paper towel and microwave for 20–25 seconds, or warm briefly in a dry skillet over medium heat. This makes them easier to open without tearing.
Line each pocket. Tuck a romaine leaf and one or two tomato slices into each pita half, creating a bed for the filling.
Fill and serve. Spoon a generous portion of crab salad into each pita pocket. Serve immediately, with lemon wedges on the side if you like.

Nutrition (per serving)

Crab Salad Pockets — The Harbor on a Quiet Evening