Recipe for New England Chowdah

Recipe for Chowdah

Step one: It’s a family secret

Step two: Make a roux

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Being the youngest of a huge family comes with its perks. You get the soft version of everyone for the longest. My uncles gave me nicknames when I was six that still are stuck with me today. Names like Baby B, or Marvin because I was always starvin’. As the youngest, I am shielded from the confusing parts of the family. Like how both my grandparents are from Boston but now we all live on the West coast. Or why all 7 of my uncles had to join the military to pay for school. There are always family secrets, some more severe than others.

I am now 25 years old, stuck with nicknames that remind me of earlier times. Some of the shields have lifted to show veils of the truth. Previously, I didn’t think much about the importance of family. As a family, we put importance on education. Which means four years of being away from family.

The last semester of college is when my grandfather got sick. Being the youngest, my family shielded this from me until after the celebrations of my college graduation. Looking back on it now I remember the somber times and the telling of stories at my graduation party. But at the time I assumed this is how families act when the youngest graduate’s college.

“They are all getting old and reminiscent” This is what was going through my head.

This was the first time I realized the importance of asking about the stories of their past.

When you hear the word cancer you have a fight or flight response. You either are ready to deal with it head-on, or you assume that person will die. I had neither feeling. Call it self-centered, or call it being in your 20’s. But I had faith in medicine and faith in my grandfather's will to live. I wasn’t worried about learning about my grandfather’s diagnosis. It lit a fire under all my uncle’s butt to go get a colonoscopy. My grandmother mentioned how they ate relatively the same thing and was worried she would get it too. Later she realized she is more mobile than him and had fewer worries.

I’m not sure if anyone noticed how unphased I was. I didn’t call him once. I called my grandmother more to make sure she was okay. Not because I didn’t like my grandfather but because I know he can be a difficult man to deal with. And I knew my grandmother was the one getting the blunt end of the knife. I heard stories of him telling off the doctors and nurses when he was in pain. At one point he was in the Cardiologists level because of a heart problem he avoided to get fixed 20 years earlier. I didn’t visit him once. I didn’t call him once.

Reflecting on it now, I am horrified. But I also don’t think I wouldn’t have responded any differently. There were bigger things on my mind. Like working two dead-end jobs to be able to afford to move to New York. The thought of our mortality had no space in my motivated 24-year-old head. I had an English degree that wouldn’t pay enough to afford the payments on my student loans so instead, I went back to school and deferred my loans. There was no time for mortality.

The other part of me just knew. I just knew how it would pan out and I didn’t need to jinx it by focusing on mortality. Instead, I focused on the living, my grandmother, my aunt, and my uncle closest to him. I focused on who was taking care of his living farm and living dog and living cows. I focused on the date after his surgery to call my grandmother and ask her, e living, how she was responding to my grandfather, and cancer.

The first time I saw my grandfather after his surgery, after chemo, after he faced mortality on the daily, it was Christmas time. At the time I was dealing with a small identity crisis. I moved to NYC and went back to a dead-end job while I could barely afford courses at a community college. I had lost 40 pounds and gained back about 20. If you know anything about fluctuating weight it is either related to money, or anxiety. And I went from high anxiety to low anxiety back to high anxiety in three months.

My family wanted to go snow-mobiling and after a day of ice-skating, I was not motivated to go out in the snow again. Instead, I decided to stay behind and help my grandfather make some Clam chowder for dinner. Or as he would say “chowdah”

This is the first time I spoke to my grandfather alone since my graduation 2 years prior. This was the first time I realized the importance of asking about the stories of their past.

Step 3. cook potatoes first, then fish in a big soup pot. Keep all liquids.

My grandfather was happy I stayed behind.

“Someone has to carry on the Jensen chowder recipe,”

“Grandpa you’ve shown me this before” I giggled, avoiding his mention of his mortality.

“Yes, you have so when I have to step away I won’t worry too much about it.”

It made me wonder how many times he’s done that. Take the blame when it wasn’t his fault.

I thought at first he was speaking metaphorically. Like he was going to step away from my life forever. But then I deduced he was still healing from a serious surgery and just had to make frequent bathroom trips to avoid an accident. I guess he didn’t want to mention his bowel movement while I was making a chunky soup.

Unsurprisingly the soup wasn’t the best he’s made. He had a distracted sous chef and had to make frequent trips away from the soup. Some of the fish was tough and chewy, and the soup was a little thin. There was a good fish flavor, but I may have messed up the roux. Roux is tricky, you can under and overcook it so easily. He of course took all the blame for it, although he shouldn’t have. It made me wonder how many times he’s done that. Take the blame when it wasn’t his fault. Not just for me, but for people in general. Is that an admirable character? Or a dumb one. I thought of how people don’t walk over him, but if you take the blame for enough things that you didn’t do how do you avoid that?

There was so much to learn from this man. And yet I was in no mindset to learn it.

We took family photos during this trip. Again, my naive self didn’t make the correlation that we were taking these massive family photos because my grandfather just lived through a near-death experience. In fact, I thought it was because the last time we had family photos done was probably at the last wedding. Which I would have been 4.

A smirk that has been on this earth for almost 100 years.

Being the youngest, the only additions to the family we had was my cousin's two sons. The great-grandchildren. We got this massive photo of us all in the snow, semi-freezing with our coats off and matching shirts and pants. If you googled “basic family photo with winter theme” We would probably be at the top of the search. My grandfather looks at that photo and sees pride. Like you physically can see the pride in his eyes when he shows off that massive family photo.

Here is what I see: I see how I am still the shortest in the family. I see my brothers pinching each other grinning ear to ear. I see my father and 6 other uncles that look just like him. I see the great-grandchildren crying or looking away from the camera. I see all my cousins close to their family pod. I see that my pod is the only one with a divorced single dad. I see 2 family pods without any cousins.

I see my grandmother's proud smirk. I can’t call it a smile because she doesn't show teeth. The best way to explain it is how a mother looks amused by her children and she just smirks. There is a smile in her eyes but the rest of her face is amusement. I see my grandfather's grin, a grin of a mischievous 6-year old that’s about to steal a cookie from the counter. A smirk that has a prideful, impish, entertained demeanor. A smirk that has been on this earth for almost 100 years. Okay, not 100 more like 85 but it’s a grin that is over 80 years old, that reminds you of a 6-year-old. I am proud of my family. But not the same pride my grandfather has.

Maybe one day I will know what pride in legacy feels like.