THE DINING HALL

What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how we couldn’t get to it without walking a block down the hill in the drenching Vancouver rain.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill school for the Blind is how, having ascended its rickety wooden steps, we would open the heavy door to a swish of steam that carried upon it the remnant odour of every cabbage boiled, every sausage fried, every turnip mashed, every fish battered, every drop of milk soured over all the decades of meal manipulation in its cavernous kitchen.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how, during those first few days, I would cover my mouth and gulp in deep breaths to steady the nerves and squelch the imperative to wretch as the door closed behind me.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how they tried to make us swallow down the dried-out eggs cooked too long ago and the runny cream cheese on tepid toast by threatening us with no dessert.
What I remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is my amazement that even an adult would ever imagine that a child could be bribed to eat such slop by threatening to withhold a generous wedge of cardboard-crusted pie, or a medium-sized bowl of lumpy, scum-covered tapioca pudding.

What I don’t remember about the dining hall at the Jericho Hill School for the Blind is how it came to pass that I got used to the thrice-daily trudge, and the odour within, and the taste of the stuff on my plate.
But I must have got used to it. For I stayed there three years with no money for snacks, and no place to buy any.
What I don’t remember are the details of how I ate there so often, yet did not starve.

But then, in a roll back of shutter in memory, I find silky hot chocolate steaming in pitchers alongside our breakfast prunes, dreamy rice pudding with wipped cream and pineapple, ice cream on Wednesdays and French fries on Fridays.
Then the hardy hot soups and soft fragrant sandwiches, replacements for cream cheese and aging omelets, new on the menu and welcomed with cheering when the old Scottish matron retired.

And one cup of tea, brewed especially for me, in true sympathy on a terrible day when my plane could not leave for Alberta.