The Memory Game

It’s a grey Saturday afternoon and I’m at Daryl’s celebrating his eighth birthday. Daryl, Laura, Stephanie, Fred, Shauna, Lisa, Scott and I are crouched around a coffee table in his wood panelled basement, our legs folded in our corduroy trousers. Our snow suits are hanging on the radiators upstairs; we were playing outside on the mountain of snow in the church parking lot across the street when Daryl’s mom called us in. It was time to party.

Daryl’s bearded father appears from the back room in the basement and places a tray on the coffee table. On the tray are objects from around the house, things like a Rubik's cube, a Barbie, pink eraser, a pencil, a golf ball, a pack of Spearmint gum. Daryl’s sister Didi places a tiny hourglass from her Boggle game on the table. We have to memorize everything on the tray before the last speck of sand falls through that tiny contraption. Daryl’s dad takes the tray away, secretly removes an object, then brings it back to the coffee table. Whoever can guess what’s missing wins the pack of gum.

We push our heads together and stare down. Fred is keen to win. He’s still mad at me for taking the class guinea pig home for the Christmas holidays. I made it to our teacher’s desk with a permission note from my mom faster than he did. 

I spend half of our memorizing time staring at the tray itself. It’s silvery blue with postcards of New York City splashed across its surface. Didi announces that time is up just as I begin to make out the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building beneath the stapler, the Rubik’s cube, the Barbie, the pencil and the golf ball. Fred wins the pack of Juicy Fruit. 

I think of the memory game as I stand here in the doorway to our dining room at the back of the house. When we moved in nine years ago this room was the kitchen. The oven was in the back on the right; the fridge, sink, counter and cupboards ran along the left side. On the immediate right sat the washer and dryer. I’m not surprised they weren’t in the basement; before our renovation the basement was a scary place with features like a dirt floor and a dusty pink toilet paper roll hanging on the wall above a hole where a toilet used to be. Beyond the kitchen on the right is a door to a cold porch where everyone enters and exits the house. There are hooks out there for coats and a small space on the floor for shoes and boots. So with the oven, fridge, sink, counter, washer, dryer and porch door, all that was left was a small space in the middle of the room for a little table and four chairs. But we are a family of five, so one of the boys would drag a chair into the room when we sat down for dinner.

This scene is a snapshot of our life right now - Pearl the cat sitting on a jacket. The red bag I use to lug my podcast recording equipment to the sound studio at the library. The football helmet gifted to the graduating players after the end of year banquet last week. A basketball uniform on the back of a chair. Blue poop bags tied to a dog leash. A stick of deodorant. A white wool hat. Coats on chairs to keep them warm.

I inhale, hold my breath, then let out a long sigh. It’s a sigh of fatigue from continually tidying this space, from asking people to put their things away, from telling the cat how unsanitary it is to sleep on the table. It’s also a nostalgic sigh. I will miss this scene when the boys are gone. When they take their things away, will I even remember what was there? 

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Food from Memory

I’m now in the kitchen making rice pudding from ingredients in the cupboard. I bring 1 cup of sticky brown rice and 2 cups of water to a simmer in a saucepan. I add a good pinch of salt, put the lid on then let the rice simmer over low heat for about 30 minutes, until ready. I fluff the rice with a fork then add 1 cup of milk, 3/4 cup of evaporated milk, 1/3 cup of sugar, and a pinch of cinnamon. I leave it to simmer about 35 minutes longer, stirring every so often, until it looks like a nice, creamy pudding. I stir in a splash of vanilla then scoop a serving onto a plate using the measuring cup I had left on the counter. It lands in a perfect sphere - a touch of order in the disorder. I crown the mound with a spoonful of marmalade and grate the zest of a tired clementine - the last piece of fruit in the bowl - over the top of the pudding. It’s not a particularly special creation, but I was craving warmth and nostalgia, and this is what I had.

I take a picture. Photos help me remember the moment.