Crawfish are foreign to me.
I didn't grow up around any crustaceous creatures, for that matter. I was raised in the deserts of Arizona on a strict diet of sand, rattlesnake and cactus fruit. In fact, the closest I have ever been to the South is Fulton.
In an effort to understand Southern culture, I signed up for the annual Fulton Street Fair crawdad eating contest, sponsored by Fontenot's Po Boys. I figured this was my best shot to impress my Southern ancestors on the other side and make them proud (or ashamed, depending on how I finished).
The crawdad-eating contest is a 10-minute showcase of Southern pride and American gluttony. The rules are simple: Each contestant devours as many crawdads as possible in the given time. Each tray has 50 crawdads, and when the competitors finish each tray, they are swapped out for 50 more.
The winner gets a year of bragging rights, a $50 gift card to Fontenot's and food contest immortality. Additionally, the winner and all contestants get a year to repair the damage done to their heart by the excessive amounts of salty seasoning used to flavor those mud bugs, until their next attempt at the metaphorical belt (though an actual belt would be nice).
This is not so much a story as it is a defining moment - a moment through which all great writers passed before me. Homer had his "Iliad" and "Odyssey," Twain had "Jumping Frogs of Calaveras County," Orwell had "Animal Farm," and I had my date with trays of mud bugs and this minute-by-minute commentary.
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Minute One
The seasoning is delicious, but getting the meat out is barbaric - you hold the head, rip the tail off and squeeze out the meat. I hate that those beady eyes stare back at me as I, in my quest for glory, do what needs to be done to win. Judges check each tail to make sure it has no meat in it. I have several tails handed back to me.
Minute Two
In an age where social-media brings out all kinds of animal sensitivity, I wonder if my reputation will ever recover from the slaughter of these poor crustaceans. I may need to give some zookeepers in Cincinnati a call for some advice.
Minute Three
Have you ever eaten so much meat that you begin to sweat?
Minute Four
Every hero's journey has its moment in the sun. This moment is my moment.
Minute Five
I see my wife and son in the crowd. Especially on this Father's Day weekend, I want to make them proud. Judging by the crawdad remains all over me and my wife shaking her head and shielding our son's eyes, I am pretty sure she just realized she married a fool.
Minute Six
The meat sweats continue. Tray empty, OVERSET FOLLOWS:I pause, waiting for more crawfish. In an effort to pump up the crowd, I begin the U-S-A! chant. No one follows suit.
Minute Seven
I realize that if I had any dignity, I would step off this stage and go home and read a book or something. Then I look at my fellow competitors and think of the eating-contest immortality that awaits the winner. I keep eating.
Minute Eight
I wonder why I have been comparing this contest to my Moment In The Sun. I really need to reconsider how I make decisions. My wife is now cheering me on and telling me to eat quicker. I listen because I don't want to sleep on the couch.
Minute Nine
Reconsidering life choices
Minute Ten
In the last 15 seconds of this contest, I am given my fourth tray and with a Herculean effort, scarf down six more crawdads. That brings my grand total to 156. The heads of my victims lay lifeless on the tray as I await my competitors' head count.
Minute Eleven - The Aftermath
The count is in, and Candy Fontenot, owner of Fontenot's Po Boys, takes the microphone. To my surprise, I am announced as the winner. I am given the microphone, and I dedicate my win to my mother, wife and son.
Thus, I achieved eating-contest immortality. I stood in front of the crowd triumphant, soaked in meat-induced sweat and crawdad remains. My moment in the sun was finally here, and I have made my ancestors proud - until next year's contest, where I will probably make a fool of myself. Again.