Not sure whether all the to-do about calamari makes me envious of or sympathetic toward my many Rhode Island friends. If those two fellows had offered the USA plates of fried clams or bowls of clam chowder, I might be packing already for a move to Narragansett Bay.
Calamari? That would be the death of my appetite.
Chowder, however, is as much on my mind as on my stove and table. A few weeks ago, I joined a virtual marathon rendition of Moby-Dick held by the Berkshire Historical Society. After reading the 2nd chapter, “The Carpet-Bag,” I settled in to hear all of the early New Bedford and Nantucket chapters.
Including one titled “Chowder.” Though I read the book three times between high school and grad school, it took this Zoom meeting before I caught the inside joke: The book itself is a chowder, a rich, creamy mix of distinct ingredients.
By pure coincidence, I am reading the rest of Moby-Dick by day while watching the Democratic Convention by night. In many ways, a welcome escape to keep company with a skittish smartass, his whimsical narration–scenes here, philosophy there, descriptions there, digressions here, dialogue now and then, a soliloquy then and now, repeat, reverse, repeat–punctuated with pinpoint prophecies of a monomaniacal leader.
Says Ishmael in a line that could be either boast or confession: “I try all things; I achieve what I can.”
Exchange the ship for a nation, and let Ishmael take a seat among us while the characters on board tell that nation’s stories, sing its favorite songs, and you’ll understand why this Democratic Convention has an appeal such as no convention ever before.
From Gabby Giffords playing “America the Beautiful” on a French horn to the young daughter of an American veteran fighting tears to tell us of the deportation of her mother; from the persistence of Elizabeth Warren to Barack Obama framing November as a choice between cynicism and hope; from the pleas of victims of domestic and gun violence to the pleasant optimism of Kamala Harris’ vision of the future: This a chowder, as creamy and rich as we could ask for.
Not New England chowder. Not Manhattan chowder.
American Chowder.
-30-
Not sure whether all the to-do about calamari makes me envious of or sympathetic toward my many Rhode Island friends. If those two fellows had offered the USA plates of fried clams or bowls of clam chowder, I might be packing already for a move to Narragansett Bay.
Calamari? That would be the death of my appetite.
Chowder, however, is as much on my mind as on my stove and table. A few weeks ago, I joined a virtual marathon rendition of Moby-Dick held by the Berkshire Historical Society. After reading the 2nd chapter, “The Carpet-Bag,” I settled in to hear all of the early New Bedford and Nantucket chapters.
Including one titled “Chowder.” Though I read the book three times between high school and grad school, it took this Zoom meeting before I caught the inside joke: The book itself is a chowder, a rich, creamy mix of distinct ingredients.
By pure coincidence, I am reading the rest of Moby-Dick by day while watching the Democratic Convention by night. In many ways, a welcome escape to keep company with a skittish smartass, his whimsical narration–scenes here, philosophy there, descriptions there, digressions here, dialogue now and then, a soliloquy then and now, repeat, reverse, repeat–punctuated with pinpoint prophecies of a monomaniacal leader.
Says Ishmael in a line that could be either boast or confession: “I try all things; I achieve what I can.”
Exchange the ship for a nation, and let Ishmael take a seat among us while the characters on board tell that nation’s stories, sing its favorite songs, and you’ll understand why this Democratic Convention has an appeal such as no convention ever before.
From Gabby Giffords playing “America the Beautiful” on a French horn to the young daughter of an American veteran fighting tears to tell us of the deportation of her mother; from the persistence of Elizabeth Warren to Barack Obama framing November as a choice between cynicism and hope; from the pleas of victims of domestic and gun violence to the pleasant optimism of Kamala Harris’ vision of the future: This a chowder, as creamy and rich as we could ask for.
Not New England chowder. Not Manhattan chowder.
American Chowder.
-30-
Mouth of the River 