I bought my first bag in a bar in Beaufort, South Carolina, around 1991, ate one, and threw the rest away. A few days later I went back and ate three bags. Then somebody told me the good ones come from a roadside stand, and a man beside a turkey fryer on Lady's Island gave me the whole method in five minutes. What I noticed over the next ten years of driving is that the recipe keeps changing as you go west — salt in South Carolina, halved oranges in Georgia, crab boil and jalapeños by the time you reach Louisiana. Nobody, as far as I can tell, has ever written that down. And then I found boiled peanuts in a Chinese grocery, vacuum-packed, with a badge on the front telling me to do the exact thing the man at the stand told me to do. One pot of salty water, five hundred years, and three continents that all arrived at the same answer.
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