As I am the senior Corn Chowder Enthusiast of this city, it is my duty to spread the gospel of Corn Chowder across the peninsula. Several weeks ago, I ventured into the Northest of ends, to where I had been given an insider tip that there may be a closeted Corn Chowder enthusiast hidden deep within the narrow streets of this tight community. It is there that I came across one of the brashest diners I had ever seen. It’s lewd exterior turned me off, but inside I saw something that caught my eye.

It was a woman so perplexing, I can not do justice as to just what I found so enthralling about her. Her hair shimmered like a kernel of New Jersey Corn in the naked sun. Her skin, milky and smooth, like the chowder broth that lingers in my dreams every night. I was smitten with this fair lady, and  I knew she was the one. She was the closeted Corn Chowder enthusiast I had been so generously told about by an anonymous phone call. I wanted nothing more then to swap war stories with her, and have her join me in the pursuit of finding the holy grail of Corn Chowders.

I was in luck, for the wretched diner sold Corn Chowders. Not great Corn Chowder mind you, but when the Corn Chowder Gods offer you a ladle of love, you take your chances, and down that ladle no matter how hot the contents are.

I bought two cups, and asked if she would sit with me to chat for a moment. Her eyes grew large, like saucers of Corn Chowder. “Yes,” she said, “but only under one condition. You tell me everything you know about Corn Chowder.”

All the pain and suffering I have gone through in my life to find the world’s greatest Corn Chowder dissipated the moment I heard those words leave her mouth. I was swimming in a metaphorical bathtub of Corn Chowder, and I never wanted to get out. Even if my my skin shriveled up and my body began rejecting the bacon floating around me, I wanted to stay in this metaphorical bathtub of Corn Chowder for the rest of my life.

But just as a bowl of Corn Chowder has a beginning, middle, and end, so does this tragic tale.

She dissected every chowder I had ever eaten. She listened intently, like no other before. She hung on every word. I felt as though I had met my soul mate. Fantasies of traveling the world, eating exotic Corn Chowders, and washing it down with even more Corn Chowder danced through my head. Could she have the same Corn Chowder fetishes as I did? Perhaps she would like to see my Corn Chowder Dungeon, or my antique chowder bath tub, used only on special occasions.

For the first time in my life, I found myself mesmerized not by the Corn Chowder, but the woman behind the Corn Chowder.

I intensely stared into her blue eyes as she brought the spoon to her lips. “I can’t enjoy it while you stare at me like that.”

So, I did what any man in my position would. I closed my eyes, and acted as though I was thinking of anything but her hair, red as a carrot. Or her elbows, as cute and lumpy as a potato left to simmer in a delicious chowder over night.

I ached for the moment I could open my eyes, and catch a glimpse of chowder sweats on her brow, or perhaps the remnants of left over corn in the corner of her mouth.

When I finally opened my eyes, I was flabbergasted to find that I had been swindled! There in front of me stood two empty cups, with not even a morsel of Corn Chowder left.

The fiery red head may have stolen my Corn Chowder, but she did not steal my dignity. You can steal a man’s heart but you do not steal a man’s Corn Chowder. Is there no decency left on this earth? For a brief moment, I felt that there was no Corn Chowder in this world at all, that we were all living a lie, and that great chefs over centuries had been feeding us lies. Were we living in a Corn Chowder-less world? Had I been wasting my life scribing these ancient recipes onto scrolls for future generations? Were we a doomed society, on the brink of collapse due to the realization that Corn Chowder was simply a ploy to get us into food chapels, convincing us that buying meats and breads would one day lead us to a life of unlimited  wealth and riches found in the chemical properties of Corn Chowder?

I had been burned. Like a boiling hot chowder scar on my tongue, I knew the pain would subdue, I just had to find myself another bowl of God’s gift to man: Corn Chowder.

Dear reader, I will find myself another bowl of Corn Chowder, and I will not make the same mistake twice. No woman, no matter how exquisite, will ever get between me and my lust for the world’s greatest Corn Chowder again. Have faith in me, dear reader, at least a cup’s worth.

With both my arms still broken from the tragic exploration of the North End Kitchen, I had been unable to feed myself for weeks. Both my butlers had quit in a rage, unable to handle the daily story of me falling 6 stories off of a building while attempting to escape the wicked hippies of Halifax. Those unedcuated bastards had left me with no other choice but to call up my long lost son, Wilber, and have him take me out of my mansion, and into the city of Halifax to find a pair of matching socks.

There is one thing, my dear reader, that you should know about my son.

He HATES corn.

You can understand why I had drove him out of my home at such a young age. At age thirteen, I caught him whipping cans of creamed corn at the neighbours cat, and without questioning why, banished him from my life. He seemed to be in high spirits as he parted, and promised to return if I should ever need him.

That day came, and I will forever wish it never had.

On our way to the sock shop, the smell of irresistible Corn Chowder punched me in the nose. Quickly, I ordered Wilber to bring me to the the chowder. He was reluctant, as the smell came from a home which door was locked. I demanded he break in and deliver me the Chowder, and after a few broken panels of glass, he had gained a saucer full of the still hot porridge.

It was the thickest of chowders, and the flavours burst like jazz in an open venue. I could barely lift my spoon, and after a few mouthfuls I was delighted to be full. Here, I thought, would be a chance to finally connect with my son. We could bond over a hearty bowl of stolen Chowder, which he had bled so hard for.

I offered him the remainder of the Corn Chowder, and was repulsed by the consequences of my actions.

I watched as he ate the corn chowder without chewing, downing spoonful after spoonful without care. I tired to live vicariously through him, even coaching him along. But he did not listen to me, he was doing it all wrong. All of those years he spent in Elementary Corn Chowder School had so obviously gone to waste.

Big Spoon for bacon clumps! NO NO index finger pushed inward! It pained me to watch my own flesh and blood waste the most delicate substance known to man.
Alas, I was unable to convince him to slow down, and it seemed the more Corn Chowder secrets I divulged, the less he cared about Corn Chowder manners.

He slurped. He refused to chew. He didn’t lie it delicately on top of his tongue, he shot it back like it was a regular soup, good Lord, like it was a common tomato based soup.

His favourite part was the ham, an retched excuse of a response. How dare he even mention the ham! Perhaps carrots or other assorted vegetables deserve a mention, but the CORN my disgusting, brain dead offspring, HOW IS THE CORN?

Having spent the last 8 hours revising my will by candlelight using the power of Siri, I am satisfied that the proper changes have been made. My son will no longer have access to my fortunes. I am leaving everything I own, the fine Corn Chowder China, the glass spoons handed down generation after generation, to the Corn Chowder Museum, which I hope to have established by the time of my passing. Inside my vault, the most exquisite of Chowders are vacuum sealed, and I hope to share them with the entire world, with the exception of one, my son, who has damaged my mind body and soul to a point where no doctor could fix.

Never the less, I shall ring upon Wilber next week, when these old socks of mine become as ragged and torn as my love for his dead mother.

Today, My dear readers, is a a tough day to be a Corn Chowder connoisseur. There are days when I wish my acute sense of taste was more fond of simpler things, like hamburgers and french fries, the food of the common man. Those moments pass, and the times when the taste of Corn Chowder eclipses every sunset and orgasm I have ever experienced. It is in times like these, that I must remember all that Corn Chowder has done for me.

I vistaed a local magazine shoppe for the latest issue of Corn Chowder Monthly, and upon entering, I got into heated debate over the pricing of said magazine. While arguing over the increase of 2 nickels for the strand of black licorice , I caught wind of the distinct scent of boiled corn. I followed my nose, traveling upwards on a staircase, only to find a cafe filled with tight fitting clothes and scruffy beards. “Must have stumbled into a homeless shelter”, I thought.

After tightly securing my pocket watch and credits cards, I made a quick turn for the exit, when suddenly I spotted those words that can take any man from the pits of his own personal hell to the highs the Himalayans in a single mouthful.

Colorful Corn Chowder.

I was handed a cup, hesitant of the scraggly onlookers. It came with a grilled cheese sandwich, stuffed with bacon. I threw the grilled cheese sandwich out, and to my surprise no homeless man chose to grab the scraps. They continued to talk politics. Foolish hobos, you cant vote without having a legal address.

Oh, the Corn Chowder. It was delicious, but something was off. It did not have the aftertaste of corporate tampering. I asked the man behind the counter, what made this corn chowder so pure and innocent.

All the vegetables were grown locally and organically. NO chemicals at all? how unorthodox! No man in a suit was making money off of this? Non Profit? This homeless shelter was so backwards, they weren’t teaching these homeless people a thing about how this world works.  They would never be able to battle their inner demons and win the rat race of life if they continued to sell corn chowder at the height of deliciousness, for barely nothing, and be expected to sustain themselves.

I made the decision right then and there to steal their tub of corn chowder. Those sneaky homeless people were not as dumb as I thought, for they had the hindsight to keep the chowder heated. As I ran down the stairs with the flesh burning off of my palms in the name of all things holy and corn chowder, I slipped on that damn licorice, and spilled the chowder all over the racks of US magazines, and Corn Chowder Monthlys.

The store clerk seemed rather upset, although it was hard to tell through his screams of pain.

Having been responsible for the loss of twelve issues of Corn Chowder Monthlys, I asked my private  doctor to prescribe me a drug that will knock me out for several weeks. By the time you read this, I will have been dreaming of a universe filled with bacon meteorites, corn moons, and milky chowder ways for some time. This is less of a punishment as it is a pat on the back, for having the guts to stand up for what I believe in; a world run by large companies and filled with Corn Chowder.

Although the homeless people frightened me, I will none the less, wake with a filthy unkempt moustache, and return to the homeless shelter in an attempt to infiltrate the organic Corn Chowder dictatorship.

Wish me luck, fellow Corn Chowder eaters.

I was strolling along the lowest of water streets one afternoon, when I happen to fall upon the worst of bad luck. There is no proper etiquette to say explain the precise predicament I was publicly pushed to partake in. Upon pondering it for some time, I’ve decided to put it in the lamest words possible.

A seagull shot hot, scalding bird poo, into my mouth, hitting my tongue, burning my taste buds off temporarily.

Reader, it hurt. It hurt to what I had thought, was the deepest of my core. But I was not prepared, not in my wildest nightmares, for the perplexing, ghoulish hell that only a demonic higher power could ever decide to have bestowed on me.

The moment I gained my composure, I fell face first over a sign. That sign read All you can eat Corn Chowder, BEST CHOWDER in Town! Free! We will pay you to eat this chowder!!!!

I felt no pain after that. My cheeks began to hurt, not from pigeon poo, but from smiling the tightest my tender face muscles could go. I entered the shoppe with foul fowl feces still on my teeth.

I began with two cups, double fisting as I went along. Cup after cup did I eat rigorously, not leaving a second for the acids in my stomach to begin digesting.

Spoonful after spoonful, bowl after bowl, tub after tub. Until finally, the owner approached me with a sense of urgency, but without force.

“Sir, I think you’ve had enough.”

ILL TELL YOU WHEN IVE HAD ENOUGH is what I yelled to this young deli owner. To think, that the Corn Chowder would then shoot out my ears like a kettle, would seem like a fantasy. But this my close friends/readers, was not an ordinary night.

I stayed until closing, and was the last one in the store. They begged me to stop eating, but i was a man on a mission, and that mission was to taste this corn chowder, and judge it with all my might. I ate them out of house and home, and I then followed the owner back to his house, and demanded more chowder.

“Please”, he cried, “my family needs to eat”. You have already destroyed my business. Do not leave my children malnurnished because of one birds disdain for pooing anywhere but your mouth.”

A contract is a contract, and public signs on display are sort of like a contact. Using this form of logic, I soon had eaten what was left of his families Corn Chowder.

I awoke from my coma to find stacks of newspapers with my name on the front cover. The headline read “CORN CHOWDER ENTHUSIAST CHOWS DOWN MORE THEN HE CAN HANDLE.”

Coming out of the Corn Chowder coma, I feel no remorse for how it all went down. In the end, the courts had my back, I will not bow down to the pressures of printed word or internet propganda. I am the lord, nay, the KING of Corn Chowder, and I was merely doing what I was put on this earth to do, to find the world’s greatest Corn Chowder. That, my fair reader, is the only and only thing that I know how to do.

No matter what transpired, I will continue to seek out Corn Chowder in the Lower Water Street area. That shop-keep may have had the greatest Corn Chowder in the world, but we may never know, because of a common pheasant. No many how many seagulls there are, or how little diners serve Corn Chowder.

As I walked along the streets of Halifax this afternoon, a smell caught the attention of my five senses. It was a fragrance so new, yet so familiar. It danced up my nostrils, and made its way into my heart.

Bearlys, House of Blues and Ribs, has decided to jump on the corn chowder band wagon, and I am grateful for their sheep like decision.

Their Corn Chowder is light on bacon (boo) and heavy on vegetables other than corn (double boo) but it does have one thing going for it; CORN. Yes my friends, they use only the sweetest sweet corns for their chowder, and oh, how it shows. Every bite into a morsel of corn was like sticking 10 oreos together and throwing away the chocolate bread. I have never tasted a corn so stomach-curdling sweet.

I began by taking a simple sip of the Corn Chowder, and by the third mouthful I was digging past the herbs and spices that hid the delicious yellow centerpiece of my lunch. I wanted nothing more than to have every piece of corn in this Corn Chowder floating in my mouth at the same time, dripping with creamy chowder goodness, mashing them between my teeth.

I did not want to swallow the corn. But the sweet corn became overpowering, and I was forced to blast the corn out of me in a knee jerk fashion. Not just out of my mouth, but through my nostrils as well, the very place that the Corn Chowder had originally won me over, and made camp in the deep crevasse of my heart.

But like all love, it could not last forever.

It set up camp near my heart, but never fully entered. Dear Bearlys Corn Chowder, I will never forget you. On my death bed, my biggest regret will be never swallowing a mouth full of your sweet tender goodness.

As I was escorted out of the building, I looked down, and almost slipped on the Corn Chowder I had spit up onto their cool hardwood floor. For a moment, I considered breaking away from my escort, and sweeping up a handful of half chewed corn from the best Gosh Darn chowder I had ever eaten. But it was too late, they had already broken my jaw, and told me to never to return.

You may never be in my life, Bearlys Corn Chowder, but you will always be in my heart.

Regardless of what happened, I am currently growing a full beard so that I can return to Bearly incognito. and inspect the floor for past reminiscence of my long lost love.

Editor’s Note: The following was the final journal entry found of The Corn Chowder Review.  The Former owner and writer was found dead in an apparent “corn chowder-cide” in his lavish uptown home several months ago. Although he was found face down in a bathtub filled with highly illegal and dangerously potent Atlantis Corn Chowder, his noble efforts to spread the word of corn chowder to the masses will continue to inspire the youth and elderly alike. We will continue to publish his nearly 1000 journal entries, in hopes that his enthusiasm for Corn Chowder and eating healthy will rub off on readers like you.

It is a bittersweet day for me. Today, on my way to the ice cream section at Sobeys, the medication I am taking for my broken jaw kicked in all at once. I was lost in a supermarket, with no one to turn to for help.  I asked the carrots for directions and the condiments if they spoke English. I begged a bag of cool ranch Doritos to find me an employee. I was about fashion a tent out of rib eye steaks when I stumbled into a man, a myth, a legend.

Wolfgang Puck. The world famous chef who has opened thousands of five star restaurants globally. He is so famous, the television show Futurama has a character that mimics his personality to a T. I had so many questions for him. What was doing at the Windsor Street Sobeys? Was he sick of saying Bam! all the time? Was he here to raise awareness of the Corn Chowder epidemic in Halifax?

None of these questions were answered. The security guards showed no mercy, even though I clearly was in no state of mind to be building a steak tent. I was thrown out, head first and feet last onto the cold, hard pavement.  I tried to scream out in defence, but my jaw is still wired shut from yesterday’s pancetta incident.

Wolfgang followed me outside, picked me up, and walked me back to my home.  To think a man of his wealth and power shows the strength of his character.  Not only did help me into bed, but he got into it with me. Reader, it was beyond my wildest dreams, and if you think it was too good to be true, you are correct.

It turns out, my meeting with Wolfgang Puck was a full blown hallucination. I had in fact, been speaking to a can of Corn Chowder, with Wolfgang Puck’s face on it. The steak tent and ban from Sobeys however, was very real.

So although I am tremendously grateful that I accidentally stumbled upon the element in which I wish would run through my veins, I am stunned that the blowjob I got last night came from a can.  It is a mind blowing head trip, I do not fully believe that any of this has actually transpired. For the moment, I can confirm that I have physical evidence of the can, and a written letter from Sobeys requesting I never return to the premise.

Truly, this was a bizarre day.  The worst part of all is that my mouth is wired shut, and I must wait a full six days before I can crack this cylinder of Corn Chowder wide open. To make sure I have full composure and can keep my eye on this can, I have thrown away the remainder of my medication, and will wait this out cold Turkey. If ever there was a time to question how real my reality is, this has got to be it.

From the Archives: Corn Chowder, date unknown

I am writing this entry in circumstances of extreme pain, but I have made a promise to keep you all up to date with my Corn Chowder quest, and I will never back down from that promise.Having stayed up until 5 am cooking a pack of bacon, I had the slightest inclination that my dependence on Corn Chowder may be becoming managable.  I spent my morning convinced that I didn’t really love Corn Chowder, and it didn’t need me.  I was using Corn Chowder and Corn Chowder was using me.  It was a painful self discovery, and I was feeling good about it.  That feeling lasted a mere 40 minutes, and was quickly washed away by the rage brought on by another local delicacey.

Pancetta Bacon.

I have survived off of nothing but Corn Chowder for several years, and when this city ran out of the most delicious thing in the entire world (can you blame them?) I found myself withering away to a mere 200 pounds.  The Corn Chowder I had saved up should last me into the Fall, but as a backup plan I decided to find a new love.  That love, so I thought, was Pancetta Bacon.

I bought the only pack Sobeys had of the substance, a product put out by the company Mastro.  Have an extremely prolific pallet and a taste for the finer things in life, spending seven dollars on cold cuts did not phase me.  The stench that attacked my nose like a trojan horse upon open the package up did end up phasing me.  So much, that it knocked me unconscious.

The details are sketchy, but i awoke on my kitchen floor surrounded by three things: blood, teeth, and pancetta bacon.  The nasty demon bacon had traumatized my third and most favorite sense.  Having my wits knocked out of me by the wicked pork creation, my head slammed against the marble counter, and then again on the freshly installed mahogany wood floor.

After spending several hours in the emergency room, I have emerged with a broken jaw, unable to eat and solid food for a full week.  Luckily, my father’s money buys the best doctors around.  It would take months for a member of the middle class to have their jaw reconstructed.  Do not send me messages of pity.  It won’t be long before my teeth are able enough to ravage a bowl of Corn Chowder, though the chances of running into some chowder in this town are slim to none.

There is a lesson to be learned here. I will never again be tempted by bacon on its own.  It’s place is forever as a supplement in a meal, mainly Corn Chowder.  Do not think that this speed bump will slow me down, it only solidifies my view the Corn Chowder is the greatest, most nourishing provision in the world. Nothing can come between our true love.

I awoke this morning the same way I have every morning lately, desperately clinging to all to real dreams inside my head.  Waterfalls of corn, gushing into a sea of chowder, creating a bay of Corn Chowder so amazing it will make you want to dive in and never come back up for air.  Encased in a coffin of Corn Chowder, your only regret is not allowing more Corn Chowder to be dummied down your throat, to the point that no one is sure where the human begins and the Corn Chowder ends.

But alas, every morning I rise to find that it was only a fantasy.

Having quit my job, the lack of Corn Chowder in my life has led me to take on other hobbies, one being social media networking.  My therapist suggested I meet others who share my passion for the art of Corn Chowder, but I cannot give him the credit.  It was only until I lost my job and could not afford him any longer that I sought help on the world wide web, and through that discovered twitter.

After countless tweets about Corn Chowder, and several attempts to find another person in the Kijiji lost adds who shared my Corn Chowder fantasies, I was finally approached by the fine people of Chefs.com to partake in what only can be described as a Virtual Spicy Corn Chowder. 

You can follow the link here http://t.co/6M6zrTIv if you choose to.  I will however, share my experiences with you, whether you wish to heed my advice, or jump into an advanced Corn Chowder experience that a simple amateur simply could not enjoy.  It takes years of studying to truly experience Corn Chowder the way a professional such as myself can.

To be fair, the act of reading the ingredients and procedure of Corn Chowder can never live up to the reality of putting piping hot chowder into your mouth and letting the flavor seethe in, with every morsel leaving a unique imprint on your tongue.  The best a writer of Corn Chowder can do is relate the taste and texture to the common man, one who’s pallet is easily blown away by donuts and other deep fried dishes.  The writer must showcase what the Corn Chowder has to offer, while still persuading the reader to experience it themselves, and hopefully come to their own conclusion.

This was not the case for the link I was sent.  Right off the bat, my eyes were confronted with words my brain could not comprehend.  Mincing? Ground cumin? Translucent onion? I may be a graduate of York university, with an M.L.A in English and chowderology, but you’d have to be a rocket scientist in corn to decipher what is happening in this Corn Chowder. There are 16 ingredients, and the word count of the procedure on how to make it clocks in at 132 words.

I speak for all Corn Chowder enthusiasts when I say, TELL ME HOW THE CORN CHOWDER TASTES. I am unable to review a chowder that I can’t taste.  You are spitting in my face sirs, and for that not only will I not be returning to your recipe page, I will not be returning to facebook at all. For shame on you chefs.com for kicking an old Corn Chowder lover while he is down.  It was spicy all right.  So spicy Ill be having heartburn for days.  And not the kind you get from eating really spicy Corn Chowder.  Its the metaphorical kind, that crushes your soul more then it does your appetite.

After a long, grueling week, nothing takes the pressure off like a bowl of boiling hot Corn Chowder. With the Corn Chowder deficit still in full effect, I have been reduced to other means of relaxation.

I ventured to Mic Mac Mall to browse the menswear boutiques for pocket squares. As one boutique turned into two and then three, my stomach began to rumble like an air bubble caught deep beneath a thick chowder. Knowing full well that a place like Dartmouth couldn’t possibly create a specialty dish that was as high brow as Corn Chowder, the promise of all you can eat bread at East Side Mario’s quickly drew my attention.  It was there that I was served by the most exquisite woman I had ever laid my eyes on.

I wanted to stick my soup spoon right into her bowl and go for the thick stuff at the bottom.

Her name was Cassandra Clarke, initials C.C  It was obvious that the Corn Chowder Gods were sending me another sign, for everyone knows that Corn Chowder watch group known as the United Corn Chowder Brigade’s (U.C.C.B) original name was C.C, which stood for Cake Cookers.  Just as the focus of their group meetings had vastly changed over the years, my intense passion for Corn Chowder was not always so strong. 

I was once a veal man. I will not get into the specifics here, as this is a strictly Corn Chowder blog, but lets just say I spent a summer on the border of India honing my craft. I ordered the veal parmigiana penne with napolitana sauce. The breaded veal felt strange in my mouth. I constantly reminded myself that there had to be some sort of corn product in the breading, and mixed the bacon bits in with my glass of milk to create some sort sense of a chowder.

Ms. Clarke seemed so bashful that she handed me off to another server, and when I approached her afterward to ask if she knew where I could find a good Corn Chowder, I was asked to leave the property.  The meal was no Corn Chowder, but one way or the other I will return to East Side Marios.  I left my pocket squares there.