Crab Cakes — When the Cast Iron Comes Out, You’re Cooking for the People You Love

Second week of September and the heat is finally backing off, not surrendering but retreating, like an army that knows it's lost the campaign but wants you to remember it was here. The mornings are almost pleasant now — mid-seventies, a breeze that carries the first hints of something that isn't summer, a quality of light that photographers call "golden" and that I call "the reason I haven't retired yet," because walking a mail route in September Memphis is one of the quiet pleasures of this job that no one tells you about when you sign up.

This week brought news from Marcus: Angela's parents approved. Not in those words — Angela's father, a retired electrician from Covington named Harold Foster, apparently expressed his approval by inviting Marcus to help him replace a ceiling fan, which in the language of Southern fathers means "I accept you provisionally and will continue evaluating." Marcus helped with the ceiling fan and didn't electrocute anyone, which Harold took as a positive sign. Angela's mother, Dorothy, fed Marcus three plates of food, which is the maternal version of the same message.

I laughed when Marcus told me this, because I remember meeting Rosetta's father, Pastor Henry Williams, in 1983. The man was six feet of Baptist disapproval wrapped in a three-piece suit, and he asked me three questions: "Do you love the Lord?" "Can you provide for my daughter?" and "What are your intentions?" I said yes, yes, and forever. He said, "We'll see." We're still seeing, thirty-three years later, and I think I've passed, though with Pastor Williams you never knew for sure because the man held approval the way a miser holds money — closely and rarely.

Saturday was a cooking day. I made Mama's fried catfish — the real deal, not the blackened version Rosetta prefers, but the full-gospel, no-apologies, cornmeal-dredged, deep-fried-in-a-cast-iron-skillet version that Pearlie Mae Johnson perfected over forty years of Friday fish fries. I made it because Mama can't make it anymore — her hands shake, her eyes aren't what they were — and because some recipes need to be practiced regularly or they fade, like a muscle that atrophies without use.

The catfish: fresh fillets from the fish market on Lamar, dredged in a mixture of cornmeal, flour, cayenne, garlic powder, and a pinch of salt, then slid into a cast iron skillet filled with an inch of vegetable oil heated to 350 degrees. Three minutes a side. You know it's done when the coating is deep golden and the edges are lacy and crisp, and when you break the fillet open, the fish inside is white and flaky and steaming, and the contrast between the crunchy exterior and the tender interior is the whole point — the yin and yang of Southern cooking, the rough and the gentle existing in perfect balance.

I served it with coleslaw — my coleslaw, which is vinegar-based, not mayonnaise-based, because in Memphis we do things correctly — and white bread and hot sauce and pickles, the traditional accompaniments that Mama served and that her mama served and that somebody's mama served before that, going back however many generations of Johnson women stood at cast iron skillets and turned catfish into sacrament.

Rosetta ate the catfish and said nothing about my cholesterol, which is how I knew she was enjoying it too much to ruin it with health information. We ate on the porch, plates on our laps, the September evening cooling around us, and I thought about Mama making this same meal in the shotgun house on Deadrick — standing at the stove in her maid's uniform, frying catfish for five children, turning the fish with a fork and humming a hymn and making something ordinary feel sacred. That's the real recipe. The cornmeal and the cayenne are just the mechanism. The sacredness comes from the cook, and from the love, and from the standing at the stove when you're tired and doing it anyway because your people need to eat.

If you’re not lucky enough to have a Lamar Avenue fish market nearby or a Pearlie Mae Johnson in your family tree, crab cakes cooked in a cast iron skillet will get you to the same place — that moment where the crunchy exterior gives way to something tender and sweet inside, and everybody at the table goes quiet in the best possible way. The technique is the same gospel: hot oil, cornmeal or breadcrumb crust, and the patience to let the pan do its work without fussing. Make these on a September evening, eat them on the porch, and you’ll understand exactly what I was talking about.

Crab Cakes

Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 10 min | Total Time: 25 min | Servings: 4

Ingredients

• 1 lb lump crab meat, picked over for shells
• 1/3 cup plain breadcrumbs, plus more for coating
• 1 large egg, lightly beaten
• 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
• 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
• 1 tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
• 1 teaspoon Old Bay seasoning
• 1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
• 2 tablespoons fresh parsley, finely chopped
• 2 green onions, thinly sliced
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• 3 tablespoons vegetable oil, for frying
• Lemon wedges and hot sauce, for serving

Instructions

1. Mix the filling. In a large bowl, gently combine the crab meat, 1/3 cup breadcrumbs, egg, mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Old Bay, cayenne, parsley, green onions, salt, and pepper. Stir carefully — you want to keep the lump crab intact as much as possible.
2. Form the cakes. Divide the mixture into 8 equal portions and shape each into a patty about 3/4 inch thick. Coat each patty lightly in the extra breadcrumbs, pressing gently so they adhere. Place on a parchment-lined plate.
3. Chill the patties. Refrigerate the formed crab cakes for at least 10 minutes. This helps them hold together in the pan.
4. Heat the skillet. Pour the vegetable oil into a cast iron skillet and heat over medium-high until shimmering, around 350 degrees. You want about 1/4 inch of oil covering the bottom of the pan.
5. Fry the crab cakes. Working in batches to avoid crowding, carefully lay the crab cakes into the hot oil. Cook 3—4 minutes per side, undisturbed, until each side is deep golden brown and the edges are lacy and crisp. Resist the urge to move them early.
6. Drain and serve. Transfer the finished crab cakes to a paper towel-lined plate to drain for one minute. Serve hot with lemon wedges, hot sauce, pickles, and white bread on the side.

Nutrition (per serving)

Calories: 310 | Protein: 24g | Fat: 17g | Carbs: 13g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 740mg