You know when you take that first spoonful of New England clam chowder and it’s like the universe whispers, “Slow down, buddy, you’re home now”? My family treated chowder like a sacred ritual…snowstorm outside, pot simmering inside, everyone pretending not to notice that my cousin Jimmy always stole the oyster crackers just to crush them up into fine cracker dust. And then use those as his own personal hacky sacks until the bags exploded.
You know when the steam fogs your glasses and suddenly you’re back in your grandparents’ kitchen, watching mammy stir the pot with the same wooden spoon that’s she’d had since before you were born? That spoon could have otherwise been a magic wand with the wonders she could prepare in that kitchen.
Sadly, mammy passed a few years back. Jimmy died a couple of days ago. OD’d on fentanyl; aspirated on a piece of potato from the chowder we had prepared together for lunch that day. He was looking pretty gaunt by then, and I thought cooking a big pot would bring back a little of the magic, like old times again.
Anyway, the rest of this gallon here still sits in my fridge. Aging day by day, slowly headed towards its expire date. Much like the rest of us. But maybe this review will be retained for some time long after. 5/5 - Rest well Jimmy, you’re home now. I miss you.
You know when you take that first spoonful of New England clam chowder and it’s like the universe whispers, “Slow down, buddy, you’re home now”? My family treated chowder like a sacred ritual…snowstorm outside, pot simmering inside, everyone pretending not to notice that my cousin Jimmy always stole the oyster crackers just to crush them up into fine cracker dust. And then use those as his own personal hacky sacks until the bags exploded.
You know when the steam fogs your glasses and suddenly you’re back in your grandparents’ kitchen, watching mammy stir the pot with the same wooden spoon that’s she’d had since before you were born? That spoon could have otherwise been a magic wand with the wonders she could prepare in that kitchen.
Sadly, mammy passed a few years back. Jimmy died a couple of days ago. OD’d on fentanyl; aspirated on a piece of potato from the chowder we had prepared together for lunch that day. He was looking pretty gaunt by then, and I thought cooking a big pot would bring back a little of the magic, like old times again.
Anyway, the rest of this gallon here still sits in my fridge. Aging day by day, slowly headed towards its expire date. Much like the rest of us. But maybe this review will be retained for some time long after. 5/5 - Rest well Jimmy, you’re home now. I miss you.
I don’t know what I just read but it was beautiful.