Marylanders recognize this scene. The wet smear of spice-reddened shattered carapace across moist newspaper says it all: it must be the end of a crab feast. This was the end of a half-bushel of medium blue crabs back in August. With a chill now settled firmly in the air, it warms me to think about the smash of crab mustard, sweet flesh, butter for the corn, and Old Bay seasoning, leading to serious mouth burn by the time all the shells have been emptied.

RL Fifield, 2012.