My Chowder Needs Some Pepper
By Jessie Martin
The wind whips around me as I wait outside the sea-salt-battered building for a bowl of clam chowder. Nothing compares to this soup, red sauce mixed with fresh clams, shrimp and vegetables, holding up a multitude of freshly baked “butter balls,” the homemade crackers that float the top of the soup.
To me, the taste of this soup is unmatched. Maybe it’s because I live in a desert where fresh clams are hard to come by, or maybe its because nostalgia has interfered with my taste buds, but ever since I tasted this soup, every other has left me with a little discontentment and the thought of this one.
The whole thing started 10 years ago, when my family and I were in California.
Being different than everyone else who wanted to tan in the sun and eat tacos, my dad and I were always the ones wanted to explore sea life. Swimming in the cold water, snorkeling and searching for wildlife, tasting whatever seafood we could get our hands on, we were the “adventures” of the group.
Unlike everyone else, we didn’t mind swimming in freezing water or walking around with sand caked to our legs. For us, it was the experience. Ever since I was a little kid, I had loved the ocean. There are pictures of me as a baby, sitting deep in the sand, totally covered from head to toe. My dad always tells me I loved eating the sand; as soon as my parents would pry a fist full of sand open and empty it out on the beach, the other one was in my mouth, piling the salty grains right in.
One day, as we wandered down the boardwalk after swimming, shivering a little from the wind and the water that was slightly too chilly for comfort, we saw a worn-out little crab shack with a line around the building. Pizza or burgers for lunch? No thanks. We decided to try what everyone else was clearly in the mood for.
Sitting on a bench outside, the warm soup was a perfect match for the outer temperature of our chilled bodies. Both of us remarked on how delicious the soup was and how we would have to convince everyone else to try it with us next time.
Next time came around. No one else seemed to share our enthusiasm, and the next time, and the next time.
It became something that was unique to us, the enthusiasm of the other making the soup taste that much better.
Now I am older, and I don’t go on vacation with my family as often as I used to. My sister lives in California, so if I am ever there, it is usually on my own. She lives in L.A, about two hours north of where the soup lives. It was worth it, I thought.
Two hours later, with nothing on my mind but the thought of delicious warm soup, I pull up to the Crab Cooker.
Of course I go to get some soup. How could I not?
I get my bowl and bread, along with an extra bag of “butter balls” to bring back to my dad.
I take my prize gingerly to the bench outside, wanting to take in the full experience.
I sit down on the bench, the sun is setting, and the ocean brings a perfect 75-degree- breeze to my face. I can feel the warmth of the soup in my hand, smell its spices coming up to my nose in a steam.
I take an eager bite.
I’m sure the soup tasted just as good as it always had, but to me it felt like it was missing something.
Maybe some pepper.
