The Power of Memory

I visited my friend Irene this summer. We don’t see each other as often as either one of us would like, soooo.. there is always much to catch up on. However, within the first ½ hour of this visit, Irene said, “I ate gazpacho for the first time in more than 50 years.”

I knew exactly what she meant. A memory from 1969 or 70 came back in its entirety. In Chicago, where we lived at the time (this was before I met Maddy), my husband and I hosted a party. I made gazpacho from one of my wedding present cookbooks and for dessert, I baked brownies. Now…. the brownies contained that special ingredient so common in our lives in the 60s and 70s – weed. A friend brought it over.

Foolishly, I the weed came from a dope-happy friend (of my husband's) and I just threw it into the brownie batter. I was not an experienced consumer. There were about 6 of us for dinner and we all gobbled up the entire meal. Long story short, no one left the party or our small apartment for 2 days, sleeping on the floor, being generally unwell, and wishing the stuff would wear off.

I’ve eaten REGULAR brownies since then. So has Irene, but until recently, neither one of us can even think about gazpacho (that poor innocent soup) without cringing.

We can all live full lives without either gazpacho or brownies - well, maybe not brownies- so this isn’t a post about loss. It’s a reflection of the power of memory. It gives me real appreciation when people say they won’t walk down certain streets, listen to certain music, or visit particular spots because of the associations. The memory lingers way after the danger is gone. It’s like a scar; there is no open wound because it happened long ago and healing has taken place, but just take a quick look at that mark, and you know it’s a forever reminder of the distress.

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