30 Years Old Crab
Reaching this milestone and being deep fried alive…
I have watched with horror the grim smile of Eating With Todd TikTok clip when he proudly tells us that the beautiful Tasmanian crab he holds is probably 30 years old.
Ah, to be a 30-year-old crab—now that’s an unusual age to reach for a crab.
Most crabs don’t live that long—many species max out around 3–10 years. But let’s imagine a particularly hardy, crustacean Methuselah. A 30-year-old crab would be ancient by crab standards, a living legend scuttling across tidepools with the slow, deliberate gait of one who’s seen it all.
Here’s what it might be like:
You live low to the ground, your world a complex blend of vibrations, shadows, and chemical cues. Your eyes sit on stalks, swiveling independently, always scanning for predators, prey, and the subtle changes of tide and time. You don’t see the world in detail the way humans do—but you sense movement with precision, feel vibrations through the sand like whispers in your shell.
You don’t think in words or abstract symbols. But you feel: Hunger, Caution and Curiosity. The sting of a fish’s attack, the satisfaction of cracking open a mussel. You’ve learned to avoid dangers: the creak of a lobster trap, the thrum of a boat’s propeller, the scent trails of predators. You remember. Not in a narrative sense, but as embodied instinct honed over decades.
At 30, your shell has thickened like armor. You’ve molted fewer times—your soft vulnerable phases are long behind you. You don’t take risks like the younger crabs. You’ve seen too many lose claws or lives in territorial battles or foraging frenzies.
You are, in short, a creature of embodied intelligence—sensing, reacting, adapting. Your world is rich with meaning, but not in words: it’s in temperature gradients, salinity shifts, moonlit tides. You don’t ponder your place in the universe—but you navigate your environment with a wisdom carved by decades of survival.
What is it like to be a 30-year-old crab?
It’s not like being human. But it’s not like being nothing.
It’s like being fully tuned to a world we barely notice—an old survivor of a different kind of intelligence.
Unfortunately, if your path crosses Tedd and his Erysichtlon appetite , you will be deep fried or boiled alive; you will end up covered in Singapore Chilly Sauce and be swallowed without an once of guilt.
So sad! Thank you for continuing to be promote veganism and speaking up for the innocent beings.
I am writing this from a luxury resort in Anatolia, Turkey, where I've been invited for a Fine Gastro Getaway with a few 3-starred Michelin chefs. Last night, our opening dinner, we were served 8-course menu by a Turkish chef, who did a great job in adapting the theme of the evening (The Yöruk cousine, based off the Yoruk nomadic ethic group from the mountains of Anatolia region). I spent the night in a long conversation with a german chef (Thomas Buhner) asking him if his entire career would be possible without serving fancy dead animals. I am a vegetarian, so these events always get me cos michelin chefs have a really hard time serving me a proper meal that isn't just mushrooms, beetroot and the occasional cauliflower.
Thomas didn't have a straight answer, he did say his new restaurant would move to vegan, he loves flavors and said carrots can taste as good as lamb, which I agreed. I don't know if clients would pay michelin tier-price for that carrot though.
But what really got me last night was that the final dish, the master piece, was a plate with 6 thinned-sliced lamb meat placed strategically apart on this big platter. It was organized By the age of the animal. The chef even brought his own platter to display, marked with a sharpie, the ages of each slice of meat. Goat. | 2-8 months baby goat | 2 years lamb.
I laughed in sadness. I asked my partner who isn't a vegetarian how did it taste. "It's good". "Can you tell the difference between the ages?", "Hmm, it's just very delicate".
Well, there's nothing delicate about this other than everyone's ego involved in creating the dish and then thinking that this meat tastes better because this "locally sourced baby goat" lives "on the ancient mountains and eat sea moss so it's different".
I looked at the chefs and asked them again: Would you have our 3-stars serving carrots and grains or... maybe just not-so-fancy-chicken?
No one really had an answer. But they loved that platter of just sliced fancy meat.