Over the weekend, we managed to get in just a small amount of chowder. Naturally, we were pretty busy because of the whole small town Americana festival of pride and joy.
Friday, ChowderGirl and I swung by Graziella’s on the way to drop off 60 ears of corn at our friends’ house. The house has a lovely view of Buzzards Bay, so we did a nice to-go cup. Perhaps buoyed by the view, the chowder took on a post-taste level of joy, typically only reserved for when we eat chowder on the boat after a race and a few beers (well, that’s just Dad and I, no kids). It’s surprising because last year, we trashed their chowder as repulsive.
Saturday was the local parade and a 10 hour BBQ/dunk tank/bouncy castle/fireworks party. You’d think that meant we had no time for chowder but we managed to get off our duffs and head to the Courtyard for dinner. Which naturally means chowder.
It was fine. In this quest for great chowder, we seem to be developing personalities. ChowderGrandma is positively positive. ChowderBoy gives everything a 15,000. ChowderGirl thinks everything is too thin. And I seem to just keep dreaming of Tony’s from the Chowder Festival.
