By Liv Kelford
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There were two ways to describe summers in our household: boredom and creativity. When we’d grown tired of the pool, or the park, or even books, we’d look at each other, and come up with random things to do. One year, it was the huge lego town we built in our basement. The next, we filled our front windows with drawings and posters. We’d fluctuate between six hours of video games a day, and trying to become world-class athletes.
Then one summer, we discovered The Great Canadian Baking Show. With wide eyes, we watched in mesmerization as beautiful recipes came together within mere minutes. “I want to do that,” she told me. “I want to be like them.” So we pulled on fancy dresses and fancy shoes, and walked into our kitchen like we were famous. We talked about the bag of chocolate chips like it was some rare delicacy. We poured them into a glass bowl, and put them in the microwave for a minute. We pressed our faces to the glass door, watching, enraptured, as the turntable spun around and around. Once the chocolate was soft enough to pour, we took our tiny marshmallows, and with impatient fingers, dipped them into the sauce. Our fingertips would burn, and the counter would be adorned by chocolate drips. Yet we were delighted, for what is delicacy if not the simplest food? As seasons passed, memories were added to our collection. The time the plate tipped and the warm chocolate got all around our freezer. The time we left the spoon in the bowl, and it blew up once it overheated. The time the chocolate burnt, and the marshmallows were stale. But on top of all those, there was the memory of our friendship. Our bond that went deeper than siblings. As with all things, it came to a time when the kitchen couldn’t support its own weight. It was torn down and then it was rebuilt again. Maybe that was the sign that all good things must come to an end, for on that day, when we finished the renovation, something in the air had |
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