When I was in high school, I spent a good part of my summer up the canyons, roasting marshmallows with my girlfriends. S’mores were an excuse to sit around the fire and talk about nothing for a while. Eventually, they became an excuse to drag boys up the canyon and talk about nothing with them, so we could later get together on the phone and discuss exactly what each nothing conversation really meant and whether or not anything said could be re-interpreted as, “I’m in love with you.” Because that’s what you do in high school. You listen to boys talk and in your head you reorganize all of their statements into coded, loaded messages.
Even with high school drama excluded, s’mores eventually became an ultimate comfort food for me…something that signified home and summer and happy. However, there aren’t a ton of s’mores opportunities in life, so it had been a big fat while since we’d had one. Hence my happiness with my family’s new fire pit and Kyle’s purchase of the largest marshmallows the world has ever seen.
Absolutely nothing about making and eating s’mores is adult or diginified, which is probably why I adore them. I can’t wait until Eva is old enough to carefully hold her little marshmallow stick over the fire, trying to get that golden brown color before the whole thing slips off into a puddle of sugar or lights up and turns into a sweet bundle of charcoal.
Nights like this make me glad that we moved back to Utah.