Crab Cake Philosophy

Crab cakes are the secret joy of a work trip to the Chesapeake, and I was lucky to get them at three different meals recently in Maryland. Big lumps of sweet white meat, fresh garlic and herbs, green onion or shallot. Almost always there is a dusting of Old Bay, the spice blend heavy with celery salt and paprika.

Maryland elevates the eating of scavengers to a source of national pride. At Kingfishers in Solomons Island, they come not just fried, but broiled — and these were a revelation. Unlike the ubiquitous fried cakes, the dominant flavor in a broiled crab cake is — imagine my surprise — crab. A broiled crab cake is clean, not greasy, with just enough spice and binder to hold it together. They were the size of baseballs. I had an emotional experience.

Marylanders are understandably proud of their crab cake. If they ever replace their eyesore state flag with something less likely to induce a seizure, a crab silhouette on a field of white would be on brand.

At my work event, a Navy official invoked the humble crab cake as an analogy for excellence. “I want this like a crab cake: give me the meat, and keep the filler to a minimum,” he said.

The Crab Cake Philosophy: all the meat, reduce the filler.

How much of life is just filler? We let the meaningless mix with the meaningful. We substitute the artificial for the real, frenetic hustle for actual impact, pleasure for joy. We shatter our quiet moments with noise, diluting our thoughts with constant distraction.

We are exhausted from overconsumption, but we keep stuffing it in. It’s no wonder we can hardly taste the good stuff for all the filler.

(Originally published at dspriceink.com)