What I Ate: Bruschetta and Crab Cakes

Since 2011, in so much of the content I have consumed from the library and let’s be real, just about anywhere, food has been the main character. 

Chef biographies like those of and Anthony Bourdain and Julia Child, food memoirs like “Picnic in Provence” and anything Shauna Niequist and Ruth Reichl. Non fiction reads from researchers like Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver’s “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle.” Documentaries galore on Netflix. Iconic food movies like some of my favorites like Julie and Julia, Ratatouille, and anything Nancy Myers. For a few years there, I was on a big Food Network kick and I have a few food podcasts still in my weekly rotation. 

As I set out on this project I got to wondering, “When did food become the main character for me?”

Like so many of these food story main characters, it was thanks to my mom. Think the critic transported back to childhood in Ratatouille and Ruth’s sometimes weird relationship with her mom and food and how intertwined it all was.

My mom was, and still is, a great cook and hostess. She will come up often in these stories because there is something so important about our mothers and our relationship with food that likely goes back to the start of feeling nourished, cared for, and loved by their actual bodies. 

But, the supporting character when I knew that, for me, it was food?

August.

I was about to head back to Purdue to begin my sophomore year of college and I was buzzing on even more anticipation than is normally found in the month that feels on the cusp of everything. I was eager to get back to my friends, to live in the sorority, and to start recruitment from the other side. There was the thrill of upcoming parties, football games, and a “situationship” that, despite the summer’s long days and distance, hadn’t fizzled.

For me, the summer at home had been packed with working. I got hours at the neighborhood pool as a swim lesson instructor and guard like I had for years; but, also, thanks to my moms guidance, I took a job at the front desk at Ohio State’s university hotel, The Blackwell. 

It was a job reserved for Ohio State students only, but that summer I became the exception. The general manager was a Purdue grad from the same program I had selected, mainly thanks to the impacts of pop culture moments like “The Wedding Planner” and Lizzie McGuire movie: Hospitality and Tourism Management. My mom met him, made the connection, and encouraged me to take the job so I would actually have some experience in the industry— not just at the pool, much to my disappointment. 

I loved working at the pool. My friends were there. It was fun and easy. The pay was great and the tan was better.

At The Blackwell, I was stuck inside behind a desk, in a suit I picked up from a large uniform room that smelled like a dry cleaner mixed with banquet chicken in the basement of the hotel before every shift.

Much of the summer, I stacked my days with double shifts: 7-3 at the hotel. 4:30-9 at the pool. But, in early June, I also picked up all the Saturday nights at the hotel.

My reasons were layered. My peers— all OSU students and 21— had filled all the 3-7’s on Saturday’s in the “request off” notebook for summer fun like Dave Matthews concerts, dates, and late nights at Bar Louie. My Saturday nights were more flexible being a Taylor Swift fan, underage, and dateless. More importantly, Saturday nights in the summer meant weddings and, if I was there to learn about the industry, I should get a front row seat to every wedding that went through the hotel. I wanted to. It sounded so fun!

In many ways, it was. Saturdays’s were busy. I guided guests to local malls to grab last minute gifts. (Local malls being an area of expertise for 18 year old me.) I watched flowers get delivered and funky getaway cars—even carriages— arrive. I placed champagne and bags of belongings packed for Caribbean Honeymoon’s in the penthouse suite. I watched blissed out Newlyweds pose on the huge, regal staircase with my head in my hands thinking about love. I was quick to assist in holding bouquets and veils as they opted for a different shot. I listened to bands as they pulsed out of the ballroom and sometimes, if I was really lucky, I even got a piece of cake or a left over bougie Welcome Bag.

I was happy to be there. It was fun to be the weird, little Eloise of the hotel on the wedding night, observing all the fun, eager to lend a hand.

But, when I got into my car every night and came down from the adrenaline of those shifts something felt off. Weddings were fun, but I didn’t want to do that for the rest of my life let alone much longer that summer. Part of me wondered if I tolerated it so well because I knew it was temporary. But, then that left me with  scary questions: Was I studying the wrong things? Did I really want to do this? If not… what did I want to do with the rest of my life?

That summer, “Bad Day” by Daniel Powter was popular, playing on the radio often. Inevitably it was always the soundtrack to these mildly depressive, late night drives home.

But, this August day had been a good one. I had wrapped up my busy, workaholic summer with a few days to spare before my return to West Lafayette. These days were filled Target runs and trips to the mall, a few final visits with the girls from high school, and getting organized move in. While on a visit to the kitchen for another Diet Coke, I found my mom on the home phone with my dad. He had clients in town and wanted to bring them to our house for drinks and appetizers after work. 

My event planning mind was kind of annoyed for my mom. It was already the afternoon and he was springing eight people on her? Tonight?

Rude, my nineteen year old mind determined.

But, she was cool. She didn’t even run out to the store. She called over to the pantry where I was nursing my fizzy corn syrup addiction—a sure sign of the times for me— and asked me to grab the crab.

“Crab? In the pantry?” I asked, scrunching my face looking in at the selves, food safety questions running through my mind. And also, since when and where does my mom buy crustaceans? 

My mom comes around my shoulder and grabs two flat, circular tins labeled “Lump Crab Meat” right in my eye line. 

“Crab,” she says, matching my slight sass. 

I follow her to the kitchen island and watch her dig in the refrigerator for Dijon, Worchesershire, eggs, and mayo. She pulls open the produce drawer and grabs a lemon and a red pepper.

Hands full, she points with her pinky back to the pantry. “Grab the tin of Old Bay,” she instructs, adding for clarity, “By the spices.”

I find the squat, red topped tin easily and meet her back at the island adding her refrigerator finds to a mixing bowl.

It will be another couple years before I really learn and master knife skills, and yet she tells me to grab a board and chop up the pepper. She is going to run out to the garden for tomatoes and check to make sure there is white wine in the garage refrigerator. 

She instructs me to keep working on what is in the bowl: crab cakes. After I add the pepper, I am to open up the two tins of crab, combine it all together, form the mixture into patties, and place them on the cookie sheet she has pulled from a cabinet and lands on the cool granite island with a slight clatter.

We didn’t eat much seafood in my childhood. It was something new for our family and the idea of crab cakes at home sounded fancy. I had spent the summer seeing them served as appetizers at events—like weddings— and at big, executive lunches. But, as I pressed the combined mixture into patties I was surprised how simple they really were to create.

Mom returned to the kitchen with an armful of tomatoes and a small bunch of basil from her small garden in the furthest corner of our backyard. She made the prep look like a breeze as bruschetta came together. She even had little baguette toasts in the pantry that would work perfectly for the tomato topping.

She placed the uncooked crab cake patties and bruschetta topping in the refrigerator as I retreated back upstairs to my packing (and, likely, AIM conversations). A couple hours and a shower later, I emerged as the guests were arriving. Mom had set up wine bottles, Pelligrinos, and sodas on ice on the back patio. The crab cakes were out of the oven and plated, styled nicely with some parsley and lemon. The bruschetta was on a tray and she had just topped each one with basil ribbons.

I was invited to join the guests outside and was even granted the privilege of an underage glass of chardonnay. We visited and tasted. Dad’s clients gushed about the food. Impressed and satisfied. 

I was, too.

Every thing was so tasty. The juices of the fresh garden tomatoes seeping in the the toasts was flavorful and exciting. The sweet, briny crab was perfectly seasoned and lit up with a bright squirt of lemon juice. 

But, beyond good food, there was something there for me that night on the patio. There was a little nudge from the universe to take notice. There was something here. Something telling me that this was important. It wasn’t fancy or even all that well planned. My mom had used only ingredients that were already in the house. But, this was hospitality. 

This is how I want to cook. This is how I want to live. This is how I want to share with others.

I want to take the things I have and make them into the best things I can imagine. I don’t want to overcomplicate, overthink, or overplan. I want to welcome people in and serve them. And, I want to delight alongside them in the most simple, yet wonderful ways.

That night I knew I was on the right track. 

I knew then it would always be August and food for me.

Crab Cakes

8 oz. lump crab meat, canned or fresh

2 green onions, thinly sliced (white, green, and light green parts)

2 tablespoons red pepper, chopped

2 tablespoons mayonnaise 

1 teaspoon dijon mustard

1 teaspoon Worcestershire Sauce

1/2 teaspoon hot sauce more or less depending on spice level preference

Salt and pepper to taste

1/3 cup plain breadcrumbs or panko breadcrumbs

A neutral oil for frying

Lemon slices, parsley and tarter sauce, if desired

Combine all ingredients through breadcrumbs in a bowl. 

Press mixture into patties. Using an ice cream scoop will help ensure equal sized patties.

Heat oil in a large skillet (cast iron preferred) over medium heat. Place patties one at time in hot oil and cook for 3-4 minutes. Flip patty carefully and cook for 3-4 minutes more or until both sides are golden brown and crispy. 

Place patty on a paper towel lined plate and cook all the patties. Plate together with lemon slices, chopped parsley and tarter sauce, if desired.

Tomato Bruschetta

1 1/2 pounds Tomatoes, diced (Roma’s are preferred, but any type totaling 1.5 pounds will work)

1/3 fresh basil, chopped

5 garlic cloves, minced

1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

2 tablespoons good extra virgin olive oil

Salt and pepper to taste

Baguette or packaged garlic toasts work really well (I find them by specialty cheese in the grocery store)

Combine all ingredients in a bowl and allow to marinate together 15-20 minutes.

Top toasted, sliced baguette or garlic toasts with tomato mixture, add basil ribbons or a drizzle of balsamic glaze, if desired.