Brown Sugar and Shreddies

I'm sure the turkey is on it's way out of the oven right now. Beautifully glazed, shiny with butter. I'm late, and I know my mom will give me hell for it. It's not my fault, though. The bakery where I ordered a pumpkin pie accidentally made apple instead. I waited for two hours just so I could get the right one made. My brother Jackson would have been devastated if I didn't show up with his favourite dessert. 

Anyways, as I'm speeding down the highway, thoughts of family fill my head. I can't wait to catch up with my siblings and tell them all the crazy things that have happened since I last saw them for Mom's birthday in August. I can't wait to say grace and then dig into my mountainous plate of dark meat, gravy and crunchy green beans. I can't wait to meet Polly's new boyfriend. Wow, my baby sister is growing up so fast. 

I can hear and taste and smell all the delightful things that remind me of Thanksgiving dinner.

I exit the highway and make the familiar turns through my childhood city. I make a quick pit stop to gas up for my drive home, so I don't have to do it in the morning when I leave. I’m sleeping over because I have a meeting with a client tomorrow who lives in town. I grab a coffee from McDonald's. The usual. Two creams, one sugar. And I make my way to Evergreen Court.  

The bend in the road and the mailbox tell me I need to turn left at the next street. I drive to the end of the crescent, where the blue doors of my parents' house peek out at me. 

"Hello," they say, "welcome home."  

Just as I predicted, mom scolds me for being late. I explain to her the pie mix-up, and at the words of Patty's Baked Goods, Jackson comes skipping down the hallway. 

"Did I hear someone say pie?" A grin that goes ear to ear covers his olive-skinned face and gives me an up-close and personal viewing of his crooked pearly whites. 

Dinner is fantastic, and the dessert is even better. I slab a big scoop of vanilla ice cream onto a piece of my well-deserved pie. The dining room is filled with joyful laughter. The kind of laughter that dances up from the pit of your stomach into your throat and comes out sounding good and hearty. A candle burns in the center of the well-decorated mahogany table. The conscious recognition of its smell suddenly brings me back to when I was ten, and we had a massive power outage. 

Mom found these candles in the basement (ever since then, she's been buying the same kind) and lit one in every room. They filled all three floors of the house with a soft orange glow and a delectable cinnamon smell. It had been a cold January that year, and New York state hit record temperatures. First, the buses were cancelled and then school. It seemed that every snowflake ever created was falling quietly down. They just kept coming, and soon enough, the power lines gave out. Darkness seeped its way into everyone's houses, the way rainwater seeps through a leaky roof - slowly and then all at once, it's everywhere.  

So, we lit candles and made attempts to keep ourselves busy. Jackson, my parents and I played cards while Polly slept soundly in her cradle. Go fish kept us busy until the hour hand made a complete round on the clock. We were bored out of our minds. 

"Hey kids! Why don't we tell ghost stories?" announced my dad. 

Jackson and I were immediately intrigued by his proposition. "Okay, you first dad, and it better be good," said my brother. My dad went to grab the flashlight so that he could make shadows under his chin. We waited patiently for him to come back.  

"There was a girl named Lucy," my dad began, "and it was her birthday. Lucy's mom bought her the China doll which she'd been eyeing on the toy shelves all summer. Lucy fell in love with it immediately. For the first week she played with it for hours on end, until one day one of the dolls arms fell off. 'Mommy, mommy fix it' she cried. 'Yes sweetie, I'll take the doll and have it fixed tomorrow.' So the doll was left on the kitchen table for the next morning. But that night something strange happened. While Lucy lay in her bed, all snuggled up under the covers, she heard a strange scratching sound. Like nails on a chalkboard. But this was more like nails on the kitchen floor. Then Lucy heard her name being called and the voice said 'Lucy, Lucy how dare you break my arm… Lucy, Lucy, I'm on the first step.' Lucy, who is now terrified, gets out of bed and runs screaming into her parents bedroom. They tell her it must have been a dream and to go back to bed. The next morning the doll is missing and no one can find it…"

You probably know how the rest of this story goes: each night the doll climbs one more step until it finally reaches the top and kills Lucy. 

My ten-year-old self was terrified, and that night I couldn't sleep because I was scared the doll would come and kill me next. 

My dad said that we could stay up together until morning to make sure no creepy dolls came knocking. 

"Shall we treat ourselves to a bowl of cereal Mia?" 

"Yes, I think we shall." 

He got out a big mixing bowl meant for cookie batter and filled it to the top with a box of shreddies. Then he topped it off with some milk and brown sugar. We sat there for a good twenty minutes before our stomachs could take no more. By then, most of the shreddies had turned to mush anyway.

I remember this night so clearly now as the smell of the cinnamon candle fills my lungs at the dinner table.

I must have zoned out and started staring into space because my dad asks me, "Mia, is everything okay sweetie?"

"Yeah, Yeah," I answer, "hey dad?"

"Yes?"

"Want to join me for a bowl of cereal tonight?"

…       

Jackson had to go home with his wife; they couldn't stay here with a crying newborn baby. Polly was sleeping at her boyfriend's house a few blocks down. All the extended family had made their way home. Now, I'm left alone with my mom and dad, and it's time to bring out the old cookie bowl. 

My dad grabs the shreddies, and I steal the brown sugar from the cabinet. My mom joins us this time, and she pours the milk into the center, coating every shreddie with sweetness. 

We dig in. 

The brown sugar melts on my tongue and gives way to the amazing crunch of the shreddies which follow. Then I wash it all down with a great gulp of sugary hazel coloured milk. It's magical. I feel like a kid again. 

Through a big mouthful of cereal, my dad says, "You know, Mia, we should really make this a family tradition. What do you think?"  

"Next time I come over, I'll bring a box of shreddies," I answer as milk dribbles down my chin.

Authors note: this story is dedicated to my nana who always let my sister and I have a bowl of cereal before bed when we were kids.