Kids love s’mores. That is a universal truth. With the promised birth of Spring temperatures, we decided to rescue the fire pit from its seasonal grave, the garage. As my husband gathered wood for the pit, a bear pelt and club his only protection from the elements and our two domesticated indoor/outdoor cats, I went to secure the spoils from our local market. It was all very much like the gathering of nuts and berries.
I returned and like rabid dogs, the children descended. Already smelling of smoke. Faces lined with dirt and fingernails now in the category of digging yourself out of a shallow grave dirty.
“WHAT’S IN THE BAG? Is it…S’MORES?” *insert gargle of saliva and crazy eyes*
“Maybe. I mean, it could be. I honestly don’t know. We’ll see!” *runs inside to find a hockey mask and Barbie knee/elbow pads*
My husband didn’t have a s’more until adulthood. I’m not sure if I believe this, but, he does. He claims that his first s’more was consumed while working as a young adult counselor at summer camp. He doesn’t remember details, but, they found him later wrapped around a tree with marshmallow caked to his fingers and face. S’more overdose. It happens.
I’m a firm believer that childhood needs s’mores. As does adulthood and, I am sure that a valid argument for having more children is prolonged access and exposure to s’mores. I haven’t fully fleshed out this argument, but, it seems air tight.
So, we made FIRE. We secured fixings. Children were adequately foaming at the mouth. We made s’mores and s’mores and then, s'(ome)more.
It’s funny how something so simple sparks not only the beginning of a season, but, also serves as a marker of childhood and, of the much anticipated summer to come when sticky fingers become par for the course until late August. Around a small fire, a season magically appears in the not-so-distant horizon painted in marshmallow dreams.
The problem with s’mores is that they are the heroin of the dessert world. Once you start the s’more season, you must prepare for the junkie’s rationale. Lying. Cheating. Stealing. Carcasses of bags of marshmallows opened with their tiny teeth. Trails of graham cracker crumbs leading to an underground s’more den. Chocolate massacres. It’s ugly. It’s beautiful. It’s terrifying.
As we brought our small s’more savages back inside to strip them of their smoke-filled clothing while they gnashed their teeth and protested with beastly marshmallow muted growls, we looked knowingly at each other across the room with a look that said, “Hide the bag of shit before one of them chews our arms off in the middle of the night.”
Welcome, Spring. Welcome, s’more season. Welcome, new pantry locks.