When Generosity Tastes Like Crab Cakes

When we bought our old home on Walnut a few years ago, we opted for small town life, where we can walk to the library, the post office, the bank, the park, even the doctor, which I’ve done on occasion. In the cold rain. And wind. With a double stroller. It’s fine. We’re all fine. Affording one car teaches you to patiently improvise, if nothing else.

One of my favorite features of our home is the cheery, turquoise back door that opens to an alley, where daily foot traffic invites me to conversation with colorful characters. In my connection with the locals and random walkers, I’ve discovered a rainbow of personalities and perspectives.

They are happy.

Overwhelmed.

Tired.

Grateful.

Hard working.

Hopeful.

Opinionated.

Angry.

Funny.

Some live with chronic pain and dark pasts.

Some stay emotionally distant from their families.

Many live well below the poverty line.  

And most (like us) live simply, on very tight budgets.

When we moved in, I mentally labeled us “The Helpful Neighbors,” giving away food, clothes, and car rides as a way to help others–but never intending to be a receiver, especially since we have so much compared to the many within our reach.

Giving from this kind of tiered thinking however, kept me isolated at the top of the resource ladder, descending to the ones below when a need arose, connecting mostly through their lack and my ability to fill it.

What I’ve discovered in living here is that true friendship must be mutual and mutuality cannot exist when connection is dependent on one person acting as sole giver and the other as sole receiver. This way of relating often leads to a codependent relationship that eventually deteriorates, especially if the giver begins to resent the giving and/or the receiver begins to feel entitled to the gifts. A human relationship like this is neither healthy nor sustainable.

Back in November, I felt a shift in one particular friendship when my neighbor *Paul* called to discuss his intent to make crab cakes for our family. As a native Maryland-er practically born in salt water, he is a true crustacean connoisseur. In frustration, he informed me, “The store only has crab from India! I’m not buying that. It doesn’t taste right. I’m gonna wait ‘til they get local crab meat.” I assured him we were in no hurry, quietly assuming this dinner would never really happen. I knew how little he made and the financial sacrifice this would entail.

Months later, he called to tell me he’d bought the crab. Dinner plans were made. When I offered to make the side dishes, expecting his presence at our table, he replied, “Oh no, no, no! These crab cakes are just for you guys. It’s your Christmas gift. I’ve been wanting to do this.”

Days later, at exactly 5:30 pm, Paul arrived, familiar beige plate in hand, the faint smell of broiled crab teasing us from beneath the paper towel. “I hope ya like ’em. I tried a new recipe.” I thanked him and promised to host dinner later in the week.

PLEASE HEAR ME WHEN I SAY THESE WERE THE BEST CRAB CAKES I’VE EVER EATEN. FULL STOP. AND I RARELY USE ALL CAPS.

In my 41 years of life, I’ve never tasted any this good. These oceanic delights practically melted in my mouth. I chewed slowly, savoring each perfectly seasoned bite. It was the kind of yum that leaves you disappointed when your plate is empty.

As we cleared the table and began our kitchen clean-up routine, I marveled at how our friendship with Paul had morphed over time.

These days, I can no longer secretly pride myself in being the sole giver. Paul had selflessly given to us with no expectations in return. He had walked to the store (he does not own a car), saved his very limited funds for the ‘right’ meat (he’s a vet surviving on meager earnings from the government), and spent his time researching recipes and crafting the perfect crab cakes.

For us.

The gap between the ladder rungs is closing as my stubborn grip slips from the top. In that release, I’ve found that generosity tastes a lot like real crab cakes made just for me by poor, hardworking hands that have little else to give except unconditional love from the Bay.

I’m learning to toss the ladder and humbly accept it.