A Memory of Crab Poofs

After the formidable challenge of growing up in our house as adolescents, my relationship with my brother entered a new phase when I started college. One of the harbingers of this new era was me coming home for one of the first times after being away for my fall freshman semester in college and my brother running out in the driveway to hug me before I even came inside. During my high school years I could have counted the number of times on one hand that Max, three years my junior, and I hugged. I was delighted at this warm reception and hoped it signaled more happy times again.

On my subsequent trips home, both during my undergraduate years at the U of A and when I moved to LA after that, the time we would spend catching up would often coincide over meals. The refrigerators at my parents’ house (there were two: one in the kitchen and a second in the pantry) were typically stocked as if an impromptu dinner for twelve might break out at any moment, so it was not necessary for us to go out to eat. But for two types of food in particular, we would: chicken wings (Long Wong’s was one of the standard bearers for wings in Mesa in the late 90’s/early aughts) and for Chinese food.

The wings we would bring home to eat, but we ate at the Chinese restaurant. Although I couldn’t be certain as I write this, I believe our usual pick was a place called Ruby’s Chinese Buffet (Google searches now confirm such a place once existed in Mesa but has long since closed). We were both still young enough that there remained some novelty in my brother and I going out to eat at a restaurant without my parents: even though I was now living on my own it was a moment where I felt we were more “grown up” than ever. I also remember having conversations of substance and length with Max while we ate. There had been large swaths of my high school years where we either didn’t speak to each other at all or bickered constantly, and coming out on the other side of all that with the possibility of my brother wanting to have a friendship with me felt nothing short of miraculous.

Whatever the name of the restaurant was, there was nothing special about the food: it was neither very good nor very bad, but rather served as the standard cheap Chinese buffet food fare most college kids can appreciate. One thing I remember vividly, however, were the crab rangoons or, as I used to call them, crabby poofs: wontons stuffed with cream cheese and possibly something resembling crab/krab and fried until crispy. I remember these the most because of how much Max liked them: his first trip to the buffet usually resulted in a whole plate full of nothing but crab poofs, with little sides of the neon colored sweet and sour sauce to dip them in. For whatever else he would eat when we went to the buffet, the crab poofs definitely seemed to be the highlight of the meal for him. Because I am at classic enabler at my very core, few things bring me more joy than watching someone I love delight in something they enjoy, and Max eating his crabby poofs was a perfect example of this.

I had not thought of going out for crabby poofs with Max in a long time: neither of us has lived in Mesa years. When we visit each other now we either eat in or go out for much more authentic Asian food options. The highs and lows of our relationship as siblings in our younger years has stabilized as we have progressed into our thirties.

During his last trip to Columbus this past April, Basil and I sat with him outside of North Market, watching him eat something he had picked from one of the vendors inside. While I don’t think it was Chinese food, something in my memory was jarred and I smiled the way someone does when a fond remembrance bounds into your mind after having been recessed for quite a while.

“I remember when Max was still an undergraduate,” I gushed to Basil in typical big brother fashion, “I would come home from school and we would go out for Chinese food. He loved crabby puffs–crab rangoons–would eat them by the plateful. Remember that place Bubba? What was it called? Ruby’s?”

Instead of the look of recognition I expected to see on my brother’s face, he stared at me blankly, saying he remembered no such thing. I tried for a few moments to bring up some other details I thought might jog the memory (I remember Dad telling me he took Max to eat at Ruby’s the day he was moving Max into his first college apartment), but Max didn’t flinch. He insisted that he didn’t like crab rangoons and had no idea what I was talking about. I was so surprised at the outcome of this exchange that I dropped the subject immediately. I was sad my brother not only didn’t remember something I did so fondly, but didn’t agree it ever happened in the first place. The amount of sadness I felt  surprised me, given the nature of the exchange, and sat with me much longer than I would have expected.

As I have thought about this exchange over the last several months, I have concluded it symbolizes the issues I struggle with as a I write nonfiction about my life: some memories are just my memories, but some memories are shared memories. Perspective is a powerful shaping force of what we remember. Differing perspectives can make past events richer and more colorful to recount (as in my recent collection and analysis of different people’s remembrances of my parent’s wedding).

But what happens when a memory I thought I shared with someone isn’t a memory of theirs at all? When I was preparing to write this post, I did some brief research on lost memories, falsified memories, differences in memory. I was not surprised to find there is a great deal of research on the subject, particularly in the fields of psychology and neuroscience. Unfortunately, these applications of science bore me to tears. After forcing myself to read several articles, I came away uninspired and with no more satisfactory answers than when I started.

I don’t care on an empirical level that my brother does not remember something that I remember. I am not interested in what is suggests about the neuropathways in our brains, about what mineral deposits in our cerebral cortex might be responsible for this event. Having a father who practice accident injury law for several years, I know eye witness accounts of even the most important events can vary wildly for any number of reasons, and there are any number of biases which can lead to these different observations. I know these things happen and having a psych journal explain the particulars to me doesn’t make it better.

What was special to me both about this memory and the time in our lives from which this memory originates–a time when we were forming our friendship as adults–is what I felt at that time: love and a connection with my only sibling. The reason I was sad is because I was sure Max felt the same connection at the time, felt sure he would remember the time we spent diving into greasy college food together with the same fondness I did. I was certain those memories were important to him too.

So having learned my memory of crabby poofs was no longer shared by the only other participant of those restaurant outings, I found the memory belonged to me alone. Being the confirmed sole owner of this memory, I had to decide what I was going to do with it.

Whenever I am faced with this situation in life, the proverbial fork in the road is always the same. One choice you can make is you join in everyone else who has denied such a thing ever occurred and renounce your own memory. I imagine this act as burying the memory: you will still know it is there, but you have effectively laid it to rest where hopefully it will not bother anyone else again.

The second choice is to enshrine the memory, to continue to cherish the memory because it is important to you. I imagine this act as putting something other people might find ordinary or pedestrian, like a spoon, in a beautiful display case. Some people will walk by your display case, either not understanding your choice in decorating or simply ignoring you and your spoon. But by choosing to enshrine the memory instead of burying it, there is a chance someone else might happen by who will find it as remarkable as you do. Suddenly, even though it wasn’t their memory originally, you now have someone you can share it with again.

So this post is my decision to enshrine the crabby poofs and the joy building a new friendship with my brother brought me so many years ago. I imagine the display case has a side dish of glitter in place of where the neon sweet and sour sauce should go.