With the #10yearchallenge going viral on the internet, I thought it would be fun to do something similar with my writing. By commemorating my 8th grade writing, I wanted to challenge myself to write another food memoir piece (yes... these are all true stories) a year later. #1yearchallenge

I also thought this would be extremely appropriate and relevant since I just posted a caramel recipe ("Chocolate Coated caramel candy"). Go check it out here.

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8th Grade Memoir

The Perfect Caramel‍

Golden brown, fat and juicing caramels churned in my imagination. Even the brown paper wrappers, sickeningly sweet with the smell of a buttery, salty sweetness stuck against my throat as my tongue slurped. Oh, the haunting thoughts of a perfect dessert. The perfect caramel. The time had come. Mommy wouldn’t budge her budget for those cavity sweets anymore, and my head hurt at the thought of my perfect dessert--oh, my perfect dessert. Unlike the other girls who dreamt of romantic serenades from saccharine young boys, my stomach twisted for this one delicacy.

The sky turned a beautiful purple, as the sunset swiftly dropped onto the clouds like pastel cotton candy. My family, lazily settled in the master bedroom, lolled around with half opened eyes on sinking chairs whilst I crept downstairs to the kitchen like a silent street cat. The kitchen, inviting and warm, looked pleasant along with the large windows which framed the sun’s setting. My tooth ached for the sugar and corn syrup as I ransacked the kitchen for ingredients. At last, I reached to the thermometer, which gleamed and extended like a woman’s silhouette and began to assemble the ingredients. Stove on. Fire ablaze. Sugar in, along with water, butter, cream, corn syrup and baking soda. I quickly popped the thermometer in. My precious cauldron shining with glistening gooey goodness made me snicker as I became an undercover mischievous witch. I cackled in the moonlight, feeling unapproachable, powerful, and as if I had accomplished...everything. It had been TOO long since I had felt the sweet’s creaminess swirl in my tongue.

The caramel images advertised in the local supermarket appeared so fat and bulging with goodness in my head to the point where I was certain everything would be perfect. Smells oozing, my mouth engulfed the accruing saliva that tasted all buttery and soft, like a pillow of tasty toffee. Not even my mother’s words settled into my brain. “Don’t ever use the gas stove alone. It’s dangerous.” After all, who cares? Because my concoction will be perfect. When they bite into this succulent, warm candy, I will finally be renown as the caramel master.

Right then, as the mixture twitched and screamed from the ascending heat, my hand perspired from grasping the thermometer. Slipping a sticky paper napkin beneath the plastic, I balanced the thermometer on top of the sizzling pan. How shrewd of me. Now I wouldn’t have to worry about anything. As I kept my eyes on the mixture, a slight chill went up my spine. I thought it was just the excitement or the sensation of adrenaline rushing through, but no, it was something else. It was, instead, the creeping sensation of flames, wafting into my nose.

Before my eyes, an ember spread into a flickering fire, licking the sides of the pot passionately.

The paper napkin had dropped into the flames. Eyes wide, my chest hammered into my heart, as my lungs squeezed shut. The flames, now a forest fire, spread rapidly across the kitchen counter.

The house burnt down. Nothing but wisps of smoke thundering out of a skeleton, that once portrayed a building; a home. My family in the corner, not enraged, but deeply upset. The neighbours screaming at me, the foolish girl. My imagination sought out a distorted version of the Baudelaire children in the Series of Unfortunate events, walking from the beach to their burnt down home; except that I was the Count Olaf. How my thoughts entwined and played with my head.

I began to blow on the fire desperately, praying, please die out. At that moment, I felt miniscule, running around like a mice escaping the ticking of a large, crushing clock. I needed my parents. Help! My head screamed and throbbed and kicked me. “Help! Mom, please! Mom.” But no one heard me; no one came. The fire, a herd of deers, continued to race across the kitchen counter, as I felt completely helpless, lost, and needy of mommy once again.

Just as my head went frothy, white and cloudy, I whipped up a solution. The fire extinguisher. This day would be the first time I used a fire extinguisher, and hopefully, it would also be the last. I remember the sensation of pushing the spray top and watching a white, voluminous liquid shoot out from the can, almost heavenly, like the motion of clouds plummeting to the earth. My shoulders relaxed, as my heart pumped slower. However, my whole body quivered with the lasting essence of fear and panic.

I stared into the the ashy mess of the kitchen, mixed with greasy foam, and corn syrup. I stared at the stove, which had been severely attacked and clearly in shape for thorough cleansing. I stared at the pot, where the caramels sat, ruined. Absolutely ruined and not even close to the commercial packaging labels of toffee I had seen at the grocery mart.

Treading up the stairs, I heard whispers clawing at my brain, taunting me to listen. Nicole, do you ever listen? Why don’t you listen? Was there ever a time you listened? Listen, listen, listen you horrible, idiotic girl… I knew I should have listened. No gas burners on. When. You. Are. Alone. Each stair step seemed so far away as my heart thudded mercilessly against my chest, pounding away like my skin was a bell tower. Thunk, thunk, thunk. My body turned cold as my sweat soaked my shirt.

At last, I was upstairs peeking into the master bedroom. Smelling the bittersweet aroma of burnt, failed caramels, I announced,

“Mom, dad. I think I just made a fire.”‍

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9th Grade Memoir

Life in a Museum

My mother’s obsession for museums hauled me all around the world. Every painting or sculpture would have a name, genre, and most intriguing historical background. However much the stories lured me in though, I could not love the museums back. Perhaps it was the stone faced priests that turned me away, or the aloofness I felt in relation to Munch’s masterpiece, but the untouchable “pièce de résistance’s” seemed to scream me into hiding. Even the “Fountain” by Duchamp was “off limits.” It’s funny how things work out, because according to my cousin, I inhabit a museum. You see, the curator I live with has accumulated a collection of funnily-shaped bowls, pots, and plates—whatever hollow lump you may ever need—simply to form a wall-length dust curl behind cabinet doors. She hopped around countries, only to bring back the most splendid vessels. Hand blown glass tinted green, traditional ceramics from Japan, and Ginorri from Europe (preferably Italy). They were her most prized possessions, to the point where other luxuries were abandoned in the dust. Unfortunately, these beauties were rarely seen again. So dear cousin, if you are reading this: living in a museum, and visiting one is very different.

Life underneath the eyes of a perfect curator bumped along. Mother, the successful violinist, published writer, and interior designer (her project was our home), taught me to strive for the highest standards in life. She winced every time I touched the white walls of our home, for it would “stain” them a darker color, pinched if I dare sat in the living room sofa, and glared every time I stroked the carpet with my foot. There was no question to this. Life had genuinely become a museum, with a family of “proprietary security employees.”

Rather than continuing this line of profession, I decided to cook up my own duties. Here, in the monochromatic museum, the smell and lush vividness of food painted our world. It twinkled each family member’s dulled eyes, and filled the empty bowls dusting away behind the kitchen cabinets. I savored this life for it whisked an unpredictability and impulsiveness that satisfied my visionary cravings. I began to see the museum come alive with an art that ceased to last—the true beauty behind each dish. No pie was ever the same, no soup could ever be repeated, and no recipe would ever be replaced. Cooking had me filled. Filled the naked white walls of my home a salsa red, filled my shriveled passions to a pulsating juice, and filled my mother’s heart with a warm, maternal joy. Mother, who did not even trust me with the password of our home lock (which is why I kept pressing the doorbell for a year), had bowed down her reign. Flames breathed new life into our decade year old museum, browning eggs into a crispy gold, springing souffles up to the clouds, and puffing out my hand whipped meringues.

Oh… how I love my mother’s bowl collection, fit for every foolish, but absolutely necessary feast.