Lobster Tartlets

The first boil of 2022. The opening ceremony. Fifty pounds, the standard, the anchor. But this year, something changed: Rémy boiled alone. I stood in the driveway, ten feet away, and watched my ten-year-old son run a crawfish boil — start to finish — without my help. He lit the burner. He filled the pot. He seasoned the water (tasting, adjusting, tasting again). He added the vegetables. He added the crawfish. He watched. He waited. He called the timing. He killed the fire. He called the soak. And when the soak was done and the crawfish were dumped on the newspaper table, steaming and red and perfect, he looked at me and said, "C'est bon, Papa?"

C'est bon, cher. It's good. It's been good for ten years of your life, good since the moment you stood on a step stool at five and told me the water needed more cayenne and you were right, good since the first blonde roux at seven and the dark roux at nine and the birthday gumbo at ten. C'est bon. You are the continuation. You are the chain. You are the roux that started with a woman on a boat from Nova Scotia and passed through Marie-Claire and Joey and me and is now in your hands, in your pot, in your ten-year-old boy's hands that are steady and sure and seasoned.

Year five is done. The crawfish are on the table. The family is eating. The door is open. Five years of writing. Five years of roux. Five years of this life — this impossible, beautiful, sinking, surviving, cooking, too-much-of-everything life. C'est bon. The spoon is turning. Come eat.

After a night like that — watching Rémy work that pot with ten-year-old hands steadier than most grown men I know — I wanted to make something worthy of the occasion, something that felt as intentional and celebratory as what he’d just done. We eat crawfish because it’s tradition, but that night called for something extra, something that said we noticed what just happened here. These lobster tartlets are what I make when the moment is too big for ordinary food — rich, careful, worth the effort, and gone in two bites, just like the years.

Prep Time: 20 minutes | Cook Time: 18 minutes | Total Time: 38 minutes | Servings: 24 tartlets

Ingredients

2 packages (2.1 oz each) frozen mini phyllo tart shells (24 shells total)
8 oz cooked lobster meat, chopped into small pieces
4 oz cream cheese, softened
3 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon lemon zest
2 tablespoons fresh chives, finely chopped
1 tablespoon fresh tarragon, finely chopped (or 1/2 teaspoon dried)
1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
Salt and white pepper to taste
Small sprigs of fresh dill or chive tips, for garnish

Instructions

Preheat oven. Heat oven to 350°F. Arrange the frozen phyllo shells on a rimmed baking sheet in a single layer. Do not thaw — bake directly from frozen for 5 minutes to crisp them up. Remove and let cool slightly.
Make the filling. In a medium bowl, beat the softened cream cheese until smooth. Add mayonnaise, lemon juice, and lemon zest, stirring until fully combined and creamy.
Season the filling. Fold in the chopped chives, tarragon, Old Bay, and cayenne. Taste and adjust with salt and white pepper. The filling should be bright, a little briny, and have a gentle heat.
Add the lobster. Gently fold in the chopped lobster meat, being careful not to break it down too fine — you want visible pieces in each bite.
Fill the shells. Using a small spoon or a piping bag, fill each phyllo shell with approximately 1 heaping teaspoon of lobster filling, mounding it slightly above the rim.
Warm and serve. Return filled tartlets to the 350°F oven for 10–12 minutes, until the filling is just warmed through and the shells are deeply golden. Do not overbake — you want the filling set but still creamy.
Garnish. Remove from oven, let rest 3 minutes, then top each tartlet with a small sprig of fresh dill or a few chive tips. Serve warm.

Nutrition (per serving)

Lobster Tartlets — For the Night R├⌐my Called the Boil