The Soul of the Chowder

No meal could be more delicious than this, nor more representative of the pieces of my little universe, near and far.

Black Bomber cheese from Wales on a cheese board made special as a gift for me in Pembrokeshire. The old knife that cut it has been sharpened so many times that its blade is conspicuously narrow. The egg challah loaf was baked this morning about five blocks to the South. The coffee mug's a fundraiser item for the park near my place, and the coffee's reall good and supposedly comes from happy farmers.

The chowder is the crown, the glory, and the soul of he meal. Ceridwen insists it's just a simple fish chowder that anyone could throw together. I disagree because I've attempted all sorts of chowders over the years and I've never thrown anything like this together. Salmon and Chilean sea bass, a squash I bought locally but forgot the name of, potatoes, parsley, onion, bacon, heavy cream, and butter. What she leaves without a mention is that pass of her wand, which takes the form of a wooden spoon and brings life to supper; reaches up into one's head and brings stories out of it.

After supper there was a nap, a walk along the avenue, and now there will be ice cream. All the stars are in their right places.