Remember

Crap. She stares down at the last handmade recipe book on her shelf. She could have sworn she had transcribed the recipe for her grandmother’s brownies somewhere. But it’s not here; she’s checked all her books. She’ll just have to make them from memory. She sighs. She can do this, she knows she can. She just has to remember. 

It’s a family tradition, this recipe. Passed down through her mother’s side of the family for generations. And her daughter loves them. No interest in baking them herself, but she says they’re to die for. Her words. They are all getting together tomorrow for the baby shower/pre-holiday party. While her daughter didn’t request anything in particular, it wouldn’t do to show up empty handed, and the brownies always make enough to feed a crowd. 

She recalls her great-grandmother, back when she was still alive. Being a little girl with a face covered in chocolate, eating more brownies than she was helping to make another batch. The warmth of the kitchen in the winter, snow falling through the trees out the big windows. The smell of sugar and spice. Ginger and nutmeg. Good memories. What was her great-grandmother’s name again? She can’t remember. A wrinkle appears on her brow, as she struggles to bring up the name from the back of her mind. A similar thing happened to her the other day, where she couldn’t remember the name of that famous actor in all the movies she’s been watching lately. In fact, similar things have been happening for the last few months. Forgetting stuff. Names, directions, things on her grocery list. She shakes her head and the thoughts away. She’s sure it’s nothing. It has to be nothing. She can’t have anything be wrong, not with her first grandchild on the way. She’s just getting old. It sucks. 

Back to the brownies. The chocolate chips, the sugar, the eggs and flour. A few other things. But something is missing, she knows it is. The secret ingredient, the one that makes them taste so surprisingly good. What is it? Salt! It’s salt. Isn’t it? Do you put salt in double chocolate brownies? She Googles it. “Do You Put Salt In Brownies.” It turns out that yes, one can put salt in brownies. But was it the secret ingredient? She frowns. She can’t remember. She has the memory of the tip of her proverbial tongue, but can’t quite spit it out. She adds the teaspoon of salt anyway. 

Into the oven. She turns away and toward the mess of a kitchen she left behind. She used to be the cleanest baker, always tidying up as she moved along in the recipe. Oh well, times change. People do too, she tells herself, and that’s okay. She cleans up, rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher to run later, wiping down the counters and table, putting away the ingredients. Then she sits down to read the newspaper while the brownies cook. She reads the same page 4 times. 

30 minutes later she smells something burning. She rushes to the oven and opens the door. Smoke rushes out into the kitchen. Well, darn it! She could have sworn she set the oven timer - but evidently she is wrong. She grabs an oven mitt and pulls out the brownies. Burnt beyond repair. She heaves a heavy sigh. Time to start over. 

Flour, eggs, salt, sugar, chocolate chips, butter….she pulls the ingredients out again, making a mess of her momentarily clean kitchen. She blends the eggs into the flour and sugar, mesmerized as the yolks break and swirl, an abstract of yellow and white, smooth and gritty. She stares. Minutes pass. She comes out of her trance when the spoon slips, splattering batter on the marble counter top. She glances around, confused. What was she doing? She looks down at her hands. They need moisturising. She s quints, her thoughts coming into focus. Right, making brownies. For, for - her daughter’s face pops into her mind’s eye. For her daughter. And the unborn baby. The party tomorrow. At 2pm. No, at 4pm. She looks at the calendar. At 3pm. Well, she was close. Only an hour off each way. No harm no foul. This is why a calendar is so useful. She’s glad she keeps one, and has for years. 

Back into the oven. This time she makes sure to set the oven timer. Checks that it’s going. Doubles checks again a few minutes later. Is this what her life will be like now? Checking and double checking, always doubting herself? She sits down with the newspaper again, now that she’s sure the timer will go off. She is halfway through the fourth page when she realises she has already read it. She turns the page. 

The timer beeps, and she jumps up. She sticks the toothpick into the middle of the fluffy brownies. Perfect. She lets them cool, turns back to the paper. Once they aren’t hot anymore she cuts them into perfect squares. They look delicious. She hopes they taste as good as they look. Her daughter will be so pleased. Now, time to get ready for the party. She heads to her bedroom, digs out a dress and a pair of flats. On her way to grab the brownies she stops to peer at the calendar, to double check the time of the party. Wait. The party is tomorrow. She knows from the date on the paper she was just reading that tomorrow is the 11th. Tomorrow is the party. She squeezes her eyes shut to keep the tears from escaping. Despite her best efforts one leaves its confines and rolls down her cheek. She needs help. Something isn’t right - something is really wrong. Funny that it took a batch of brownies to make her accept what she has suspected for months now. She picks up a brownie square and takes a bite. Fluffy and sweet, tastes just like it always does. It tastes like memories and home and warmth and love. It tastes like hope.