By May. Spring in full force. The fireweed starting at the base. The coastal trail crowded with people who have survived another Alaskan winter and are celebrating with the particular intensity of people who know the summer is short and the savoring must be aggressive. I walk the trail before shifts — the inlet silver, the mountains green-bottomed and white-topped, the eagles circling. The walking is meditation. The walking is the morning version of what cooking is at night: the practice that holds me, the rhythm that carries me, the body in motion while the mind processes.
The blog continues its steady growth. Twelve thousand readers — the post-pandemic plateau that has become the baseline. I wrote this week about spring cooking in Alaska — the transition from root vegetables and frozen fish to the first fresh greens, the rhubarb arriving at the Tuesday Market like a returning hero, the excitement of ingredients that aren't frozen or canned, the particular Alaskan joy of a fresh radish in May that people in California feel about nothing because California has fresh radishes year-round and the year-round-ness eliminates the joy. Joy requires absence. Joy requires winter. Joy requires Alaska.
The ER is in spring mode — lighter than winter, the seasonal depression cases declining as the light returns, the patient volume shifting from darkness-driven crises to spring-activity injuries: hiking falls, bear encounters, the annual Alaskan spring inventory of humans who forgot what the wilderness can do and are being reminded by the wilderness. I set a broken wrist this week from a woman who fell on a trail she's hiked forty times and who said, "The ice was gone everywhere except where I stepped." The specificity of Alaskan spring: the ice is gone except where it isn't, and the isn't is where you step.
I made grilled salmon on the balcony — the first outdoor grill of the season. Joseph's salmon. Charcoal. Salt. The simplicity. The light at 9 PM. The salmon pink and flaky and perfect. Summer is here. The cooking moves outside. The outside is the gift.
The grilled salmon on the balcony was the main event, but it was the side dish — a simple Crab-Stuffed Avocado I threw together from what was in the fridge — that stopped me in my tracks. There’s something about fresh crab and ripe avocado that feels like a reward, the kind of thing you can only fully appreciate after months of root vegetables and frozen everything. It’s the Alaskan radish principle applied to dinner: joy requires absence, and this tasted like May.
Crab-Stuffed Avocado
Prep Time: 15 min | Cook Time: 0 min | Total Time: 15 min | Servings: 2
Ingredients
- 2 ripe avocados, halved and pitted
- 8 oz lump crab meat, drained and picked over
- 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
- 1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
- 1 tablespoon finely diced celery
- 1 tablespoon finely diced red onion
- 1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
- 1 tablespoon fresh chives, chopped
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste
- Pinch of smoked paprika, for garnish
- Lemon wedges, for serving
Instructions
- Prepare the crab filling. In a medium bowl, combine the crab meat, mayonnaise, lemon juice, celery, red onion, and Dijon mustard. Stir gently to combine, being careful not to break up the crab too much. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
- Prepare the avocados. Halve and pit the avocados. If needed, scoop out a small additional portion of flesh from each cavity to create more room for the filling. Dice any scooped avocado and fold it gently into the crab mixture.
- Fill and garnish. Spoon the crab mixture evenly into each avocado half, mounding it slightly. Top with chopped chives and a pinch of smoked paprika.
- Serve immediately. Arrange on plates with lemon wedges alongside. Best served fresh — the avocado will oxidize if it sits too long.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 380 | Protein: 24g | Fat: 28g | Carbs: 10g | Fiber: 7g | Sodium: 520mg