You Don't Bring Me Chowder Anymore ...

… and that might be a good thing. Been six months or so since a chowder delivery. Good. All good.

What’s wrong with this picture? Hmmm. Looks like perfectly fine corn chowder. Wait. Homemade corn chowder in a somewhat suspect repurposed gelato container. No, no, no. Not a fan of this practice. And apparently friend Dob overlooked the sign above my back door reading "Abandon all gift meals ye who enter here! " 

Ok, there really is no such sign but the sentiment is there. Dob knows this because that imaginary sign is strictly intended for him and he has been told. Repeatedly.  I do, in fact, accept and even welcome gift meals from quite a few persons. But not Dob.

Apparently Dob has forgotten that his food stuffs are specifically unwelcome. Telling him this involved a rather harsh series of discussions. And that he himself was banned in the past for 6 months for failing to stop bringing me his cooking. No matter, here he is with the chowder and one bottle (I’m currently undrinking) of Hop Bullet Double IPA.

So, the chowder. Corn. Hmmm. I guess corn is required in corn chowder. Potatoes. Good. I like potatoes. I can still taste potatoes. The taste problem is a medical thing that I was hoping would be soon over – it is now. Did make it a challenge to answer any “tell me what you think of this” request. Dob was not realizing I won’t really be able to taste his chowder. He didn’t care. He just wants me to have it. Says he made a whole paella full? What the heck is a paella?

Celery. OK. Thin milk. Hmmm. Not so much a milk man. Dob loves milk. So, everyone must. No. And then there’s the whole calcium thing with milk. I could get testimony from a dozen student doctors at RI Hospital for details on my relationship with calcium but that’s a whole different story.

Assorted spices. Of course. Spices are usually lovingly and lavishly used in Dob’s dishes. With reduced taste buds from the previously noted medical situation I couldn’t tell what these might be. 

Then the fatal flaw. A mystery meat. No. Don’t do this to me. Pork? Dog? Buffalo? Dob leaves unknowingly banned but will be told when next I see him.

Time passes.

Ha. So six months have gone by since the chowder delivery and I do see Dob on my morning walk. He’s doing well. I tell him that, yes, he has been banned. We talk about listening to Count of Monte Christo (me) and Ulysses (him) – both of which are more than sixty hours of audio – then go our separate ways. But still of course friends. Life.