Through ill-advice derived clichés, I recalled that rules were made to be broken.  Still, a deeply-bred, tacit truth of life is that directions were made to be followed.  Like signs.  I confirmed my proper adherence to such directions printed on the side of the can, then left my one-course edible masterpiece heating on the stove. 

The pipes beneath the house must have groaned.  Though it was more of a moan than a groan.  And more from the counter.  Peculiar.

Too anxious to sit, I confronted a matter of utmost importance: what to imbibe?  Fearful of diminishing my appreciation for the new experience (and unwilling to risk Mother’s ire for my secret stash) I dared not compliment my chowder with anything alcoholic.  Soda pop might taint my taste buds with too much saccharine; juice would provide too strong an acidic influence.  For years, I hadn’t used milk as anything beyond a moisturizer for my Grape Nuts.  No, the purest opportunity for flavor I could pursue dictated bottled water as my beverage.  (Why society approves of oxygen bars, yet scoffs at a water-only establishment, I’ll never understand.)

I opened my icebox and retrieved two bottles of Evian, which opened a new avenue to ponder.  Though the New England Clam Chowder was less soup-like than any other Campbell’s can I’d emptied, I wondered if it melt upon heating, thereby satiating my thirst to the point where I’d only need one water?  I saw little point in allowing a second bottle to warm to room temperature.  Who drank tepid water?

Conversely, I didn’t want the food to suffer the distraction of leaving the table – isn’t that why waiters at fine dining establishments anticipate your need and refill your glasses?

The simplicity of the solution reminded me how much I still needed to learn about life.  I emptied my ice trays into the crockpot and plunged three – yes, three! – bottles of Evian inside.  I shivered a bit, undoubtedly from the ice cubes, as I transported my garage sale purchase to the centerpiece of my table for one. 

I resumed my position at the stove, and bubbles sputtered as if something beneath the goo was alive and breathing.  The aroma reminded me of a tour I’d once taken of a soup kitchen, minus the negative smells of urine and beer. 

Just less than half of the recommended fifteen minutes cooking time remained.  My table was set, my menu was complete, and now I was left with little to do but pass the time.

Should I invite company?  The internet allowed me employment inside the confines of my walls for the last several years, so there were no co-workers to consider.  Just as well; I never enjoyed casual and trivial conversations and the holes therein, of which I tended to leave too many.

The idea of opening my home to a neighbor reminded me of the feeling I had when I learned (through an unsolicited postcard from the local exterminator) of the potential that my house had invisible termites.  I never saw one, but I didn’t want to share my abode with either.

If memory served me correctly, I had cousins somewhere within the city limits.  Was clam chowder a worthwhile reunion instigator?  If not, what?

With a mere six minutes remaining before my forbidden feast for one, I decided to refrain from burdening my mind on company for the meal.  Instead, I planned to top off supper with a stroll to Pink’s Ice Cream Parlor for a serving of vanilla.  Maybe a double scoop.