The industry is promising a better-than-average crawfish season this year, and this Cajun girl couldn’t be happier.

I grew up in the North where my connection with Louisiana food was mostly through stories I heard from my Southern relatives. It wasn’t until we moved to Louisiana when I was a young teen that I became acquainted with Louisiana seafood.

The marshlands around Lake Charles were our classroom as my dad and our Uncle Howard taught us how to catch dinner from the bayous. The lesson started with wading out into shallow waters with nets and bait.

They taught us how to tie the bait to a triangular net and how to carefully check those nets every half hour.  We were thrilled when we’d pull up a trap and see mudbugs and crabs nibbling on the bait because we knew there was a crawfish boil in our immediate future.

The first time I went to a crawfish boil, I didn’t know what to expect. There was a big gray metal washtub in the back yard filled with swarming crawfish. Some had big claws while some were missing either one or both claws. My dad explained that those were the ones who’d lost the fight, but they would still be good eating.

Between the cooks, there were friendly arguments about every step of the cooking process.Seasoning was the first argument. Some put the seasoning on once the crawfish hit the pot. Others seasoned the water before adding the crawfish. Some added Tabasco sauce. Some sprinkled Tony Chachere’s Cajun Seasoning liberally into the water. Most agreed, however, that cayenne pepper is required.

We were a family that added potatoes and corn-on-the-cob in with the crawfish. I remember the first time I bit into the corn and feeling my mouth catch on fire from the red pepper. My dad laughed and told me the potatoes and corn suck up the seasoning so be careful about taking a big bite without slathering it in butter first.

While we waited for the crawfish to cook, it was the youngsters’ job to cover the picnic tables with old newspapers and make sure there were lots of rolls of paper towels. We also put out small bowls to mix ketchup and Tabasco sauce for those who liked their crawfish extra spicy.

Once the seasoning debate was settled, then it was a heated debate about whether it was better to dump ice on the crawfish to stop them from cooking once they’d turned a deep shade of cinnamon or dump them on the table and watch the steam rise.

We didn’t care what method the grownups used as long as there was a giant pile of crawfish to dig into. When the crawfish were cooked to the chef’s degree of satisfaction, the cooks would dump piles of crawfish along the middle of the table, and everybody pulled a pile toward them.

Our Cajun relatives believed we needed to know how to properly peel and eat crawfish. Uncle Howard taught me how to grab the tail, squeeze the sides, twist it and then carefully pull out the meat.

It was a lucky day if the tail came out intact and an even luckier day if we could take the pincher on the claw, twist it and wiggle the meat from the claw. If we were hungry, we’d put the claws to the side to tackle after the crawfish were all gone and we were waiting for the next batch.

The best parts of a crawfish boil are the Cajun music playing in the background, the hum of the propane tank heating the water and the sounds of cards hitting a table while the grownups play boo-ray for nickels.

My dad and uncle aren’t with us anymore, but their spirit is with me every time I sit down to a platter of freshly cooked crawfish and silently thank them for the Cajun life lessons.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.