By Andrew Court
Crayfish aren’t the most exciting game. You’re not strapped into a chair; no giant tarpon is jumping on a tropical horizon. There is, however, a quiet dignity to the process.
We were on a lake in Finland near the Russian border, and it was the first day of crayfish season. Rowing across the perpetual twilight of a northern summer evening, we looked for structure in the clear lake. The traps are simple; there’s an easy way in and a hard way out. My host didn’t listen to his neighbors, using old chicken bits as bait instead of perch he caught himself.
We found the spots and threw the traps in. A piece of blue cord floated from them, but the water was clear and still enough to see them without a bobber. We slowly rowed back to shore. This is a waiting game, and tomorrow morning we’d see what we caught. On such a peaceful night, it’s hard to imagine that Russia, the global boogyman, was just across the lake. A military helicopter patrolling the border reminds us of the situation.
Waiting is the fun part. The wood-fire sauna was blasting and the birch branches gathered. From the fridge came Longdrink, a Finnish alcoholic soda, basically gin and carbonated grapefruit juice. Water splashed on the hot rocks and the steam rose. Time to sauna and chill.
Searching for Crayfish
Crayfish are a Scandinavian delicacy. This was new to me; I’ve always thought of them as something from the bayous of Louisiana, pretty much the opposite of restrained, Scandinavian minimalism. They have a long history up here in the north. It’s an underrated seafood delicacy.
The origins of the crayfish party can be traced to the Middle Ages. Initially, crayfish were peasant food, but by the 16th century they became popular with the Swedish nobility as a luxury dish. As they became rarer, a result of overfishing, the crayfishing season was limited to the summer. The small crustaceans became a staple of outdoor feasts, preferably with lots of hot, blond girls singing. You put a crown on your head and caught a buzz, maybe even set up a date.
Traditionally they are boiled with dill, coming out of the pot bright red. You need to make sure they’re alive up to the moment they go for their jacuzzi dip; otherwise, you risk getting sick. They are then iced and served cold, preferably in a cornucopia of abundance.
The next morning we rowed out to see what was in the traps. It was not the expected abundance, but we weren’t skunked either. Enough crayfish were harvested for a robust appetizer, if not a main course. Mickey, my host, was pleased as he got to shore. In a generous mood, he let a few of the smaller ones back into the lake. It was the first day of the season, and they had some growing to do.
Beyond the crayfish, the cocktails are key. The Nordics love gin and tonics, so we grabbed a bottle of Kyro Finnish gin and mixed it up with a couple sprigs of rosemary and linden berries as garnish. In a previous article for Field Ethos, I’ve sung the praises of the Spanish Gin and Tonic, and the Nordic version holds its own at the other end of the European continent. It’s what Santa Claus must drink on his Summer vacation.
The Revels of Summer
Sitting down at the table things got serious as an icy bottle of vodka came out. It’s tradition to take a sip with every crayfish bite while cheering your neighbor. We had the blond girls but skipped the Swedish songs; this is Finland after all.
Cracking a crayfish is like a small lobster. Your resolve will be tested by the claws. The amount of effort you’re willing to expend harvesting this small amount of meat proves your dedication to the dish. The tails are easier; the only sticky bit is removing the long, thin poop sack that lives inside their shell.
I was encouraged to eat the meat on a piece of toast, but I preferred it straight. The cold seafood was tender and fresh, and it went down smooth alongside the vodka. It was 9 in the evening and the sky was glowing across the lake.
Sitting here it’s easy to like the Finnish people. For most of their history they‘ve been under the thumb of either the Swedish or Russian empires. Over the last hundred years Finland has been independent. Finns are one of the rare peoples who were genuinely oppressed but still manage to succeed without complaint. Instead of fearing the Russians, they built a robust army. Instead of resenting the aristocratic Swedes, they make fun of them. “A Swede is a Finn who looks like they just got off a yacht,” is the common joke.
They also know how to do Summer, like only northern people with harsh winters can. They savor it, sort of like each small bite of crayfish.
