There's an old screen door that I'm thinking of; solid wood until about halfway down, chipped green paint with a white border surrounding the transparent screen. It's the colour scheme of my childhood. I love the sound of that screen door. It slams into itself so violently and suddenly only to wind gently closed behind me; that perfectly slow squeak letting me know the world is outside and I am not.

I visit the ritualistic memory of opening and closing this door far more than I ever did in real life. I often wonder how it's possible that a moment can be so informative years later and so null at the time of action. In reality, this door wasn't walked through nearly as frequently as many of the others that opened and closed on my childhood, though for some reason it seems to have a certain set of extensively pleasant sensations attached to it.

There was a door knocker, shaped like a red wood pecker,to the right of the door and an faded pink plastic hummingbird feeder to the left. The little, yellow plastic flowers that drew the beautiful birds' attention never faded. I used to give the woodpecker a quick peck before entering, and without fail my first sight upon entering the old, linoleum floored cottage was a tub of Cool Whip. It was so exotic to me. My grandmother didn't use Cool Whip, but my cousin's grandmother certainly did. Cool Whip on berries, Cool Whip on graham crackers and frozen Cool Whip instead of ice cream. My Great Aunt Lucille had endless different recipes surrounding her favourite product, each one more delicious than the last.

There's a distinct difference between my cousin's grandmother's house and my own grandmother's house. My grandmother's house was as welcome as my own, with an added novelty of impending spoils. Physical familiarity abounds in memories of my Grandmother's house, but entering Aunt Lucille's cottage was always filled with a particular amount of excited trepidation. I was always welcome, but hers were not a set of legs I would cling to in the supermarket in the absence of my mother's.

So dutifully, like a child who has been sent to finishing school, I would stand just inside the frame of the sprung screen door, listen for the familiar squeak behind me and wait for the invitation to sit down. those steel and leather chairs that were so iconic of her time, seemed like a throne to me and the rest of my cousins. If you caught Aunt Lucille alone, you'd have the privilege of parking your too small bottom on that so plush seat. It was almost as good as the impending treat. Craning around to see what she was busying herself with at the sink, I would sheepishly accept her offer of a 'snack, dear?' And so would begin what I now recognise as an easy to anticipate and very welcome exchange between my dear Aunt Lucille and my then smaller, barefoot self.

The Cool Whip and berries would be placed in front of me, teaspoon beside the bowl. Her hand would light my shoulder briefly and then she'd be sitting next to me, chin on hand, smiling. "The worries of the world today, my wee Columbus?" she'd ask. And more often than not, I'd detail her, mouth full of fresh blueberries and that heavenly kraft product, of the most recent adventures I'd tagged along on. The snack was not self-replenishing, nor was it particularly heavy on in portion, but I always took my time with it, listening for the low whir of the hummingbird's wings or the too familiar smell of Uncle Eph's afternoon cigar. When my bowl was empty, she'd uncross her legs, smooth her skirt and look at her hands. "Well I just don't know how I'd pass the time without you," she'd say. And to be honest, I truly believed her.

Years later, I now know that the Cool Whip visit to Aunt Lucille's was of course not a unique experience, though that certainly does not diminish its formative importance. Today, when we speak of our glamorous and ever-domesticated Aunt Lucille, all 23 of us are immediately reminded of the quiet, shaded summer afternoons spent in her kitchen. Eating Cool Whip and solving the mysteries of the world.