Seasoned Crab Cakes

The garden is giving me more than I can eat and I am giving the surplus away the way Mama taught me: without hesitation, without expectation, without keeping track. Tomatoes to Miss Corrine. Peppers to Sister Mae at church. Okra to the teachers at Hodge who are already back prepping their classrooms. A bag of herbs to anyone who says the word "cooking" in my presence.

Earl's garden is mine now. I still call it his — I probably always will — but I tend it alone and the decisions are mine. This week I decided to try a new pepper variety: Scotch bonnets. Hot as the devil's handshake and perfect for a Caribbean-style hot sauce I've been wanting to make. Earl would have said, "Dot, your hot sauce is already too hot." I would have said, "Hot sauce is a personality, Earl, and mine has ambition." The argument would have lasted three minutes and ended with him tasting the sauce and saying it was good. I miss those arguments. I miss them almost as much as I miss the silences.

Kayla came over Tuesday evening and we cooked together — our new tradition. She's getting better, baby. Really better. Her shrimp timing is almost right now — she only overcooks them by about ten seconds, which is a vast improvement from the thirty-second catastrophe of March. Her grits are smooth. Her cornbread is close. She still doesn't add enough butter to anything, which is a flaw shared by her entire generation and possibly a sign of moral decline.

We made shrimp and okra stew — a dish I learned from Mama, who learned it from her mother, who probably learned it from Pearl on Sapelo. Shrimp, okra, tomatoes, onion, the holy trinity of Lowcountry cooking. You cook the okra first, slow, until it loses its slime — that's the secret, baby, patience with the okra — and then you add the tomatoes and the shrimp and you let it come together the way all good things come together: slowly, without rushing, with heat and time.

Kayla took notes. She's keeping a notebook now — a recipe notebook, like mine, like Mama's recipe box but in millennial format. She writes down the recipes and also the stories, which is the part that matters. The recipe without the story is just instructions. The story without the recipe is just memory. Together, they're a life.

Now go on and feed somebody.

The shrimp and okra stew was Mama’s lesson, but this one — the crab cakes — was mine to Kayla, something I’ve been making since before she was born and something I wanted her to have in that notebook of hers. Seafood from the coast has always lived in this family the way garden vegetables do: passed hand to hand, generation to generation, seasoned with whoever taught you. These crab cakes won’t replace the stew, but they’re the kind of recipe that earns its place right beside it — quick enough for a Tuesday evening tradition, special enough to write down.

Prep Time: 20 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 30 min | Servings: 4 (8 crab cakes)

Ingredients

1 lb fresh lump crab meat, picked over for shells
1/2 cup plain breadcrumbs, plus more for coating
1 large egg, lightly beaten
3 tablespoons mayonnaise
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (or more, if your hot sauce has ambition)
1 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce
2 green onions, finely chopped
2 tablespoons fresh flat-leaf parsley, minced
Salt and black pepper to taste
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons neutral oil (such as canola)
Lemon wedges, for serving

Instructions

Combine the base. In a large bowl, stir together the mayonnaise, egg, Dijon mustard, Old Bay, smoked paprika, cayenne, and Worcestershire sauce until smooth.
Fold in the crab. Add the lump crab meat, green onions, parsley, and 1/2 cup breadcrumbs. Fold gently — do not overmix. You want those lumps intact. Season with salt and black pepper.
Form the cakes. Shape the mixture into 8 patties, about 3/4 inch thick. Press a light coating of breadcrumbs onto each side. Place on a parchment-lined baking sheet and refrigerate for at least 15 minutes to help them hold together in the pan.
Heat the pan. In a large skillet over medium-high heat, melt the butter with the oil. When the butter foams and the foam subsides, the pan is ready.
Cook the cakes. Add crab cakes in a single layer without crowding — work in batches if needed. Cook 3 to 4 minutes per side until deep golden brown and heated through. Resist the urge to move them before they’re ready to release on their own.
Serve. Transfer to a plate lined with paper towels for one minute, then plate immediately with lemon wedges. Serve alongside remoulade, hot sauce, or nothing at all — they don’t need much help.

Nutrition (per serving)

Seasoned Crab Cakes — What Kayla and I Made After the Okra Was Gone