My Mother’s Clam Chowder
And the art of reframing traumatic memory
Recently, I got a hankering for a bowl of clam chowder. I love clam chowder, especially my mother’s recipe. It’s comfort food at its finest.
But as I was waiting for the potatoes and carrots to soften, one uncomfortable memory sprang to mind. When I was about fifteen, a boy had asked me out to dinner, and I turned him down so I could stay home and eat my mother’s clam chowder.
Stirring the pot now, I got mad. I can’t even enjoy a bowl of soup without recalling the stranglehold my mother had on me, or reliving embarrassing moments?
All my life, my mother used cooking as a “I’m better than you” weapon. When we lived in Virginia, she became the “world’s leading expert” in Southern cuisine. I begged for her fried chicken, served alongside chunky mashed potatoes and collard greens.
In Chula Vista, California (an easy drive north of Tijuana), she became a pro at delicacies like tamales, burritos, and tres leche cake.
In San Francisco, there was a sandwich deli she liked. My personal favorite menu item was beef tongue on sourdough.
But my mother has always been the queen of trying new and exotic foods. She simply could not, would not allow her daughter to outdo her. She reasoned that…
