Your stomach makes it to digest dinner.
The old-school laundry mineral from desert lake beds.
The non-stick coating on frying pans.
Sweet crystals in coffee, cake and candy.
The glittering mineral that tricked gold miners.
Burnt limestone that hisses and heats up when water touches it.
The white crystals on every dinner table.
The corrosive liquid inside a car battery.
Most beach sand — and every glass window starts as this mineral.
The laundry booster one shelf over from the baking soda — but with no hydrogen in it.
Blackboard sticks, seashells and the white cliffs of Dover.
The white plastic of drainpipes and window frames.
Fertilizer pellets with an explosive reputation. The name decodes the recipe.
The dentist's giggly anaesthetic — and the whipped-cream propellant.
The blue gem in engagement rings — rubies are its red twin.
The soap-maker's alkali — it dissolves grease and worse.
Natural gas: the blue flame under a kitchen pot.
The sharp smell in window cleaner and smelling salts.
Covers most of the planet and falls out of the sky.
The orange crust that eats old cars and bike chains.
Twenty everyday compounds, and for each one you name the chemical elements inside it. Water is hydrogen and oxygen. Table salt is sodium and chlorine. Rust is iron and oxygen.
This is the easy room of the periodic table: every compound is a household name, and the card tells you how many elements you need. You get ONE attempt per compound, and the game grades each answer the moment you fill its last slot.
The bank holds 31 compounds and every run draws a fresh 20.