I love roasting marshmallows. I don’t even like to eat them that much. Just one and I’m rolling on the ground from sugar overload. But I like roasting them. Not my own. I just flame mine and shake it around to watch The Man tremble in fear as I attempt to put it out, huffing and puffing and waving the stick as though I might fling it at him. It’s ……. “AaaaaaaAAAnd done.” *arm gesture* Band aid stoic, in, burn, fling. Done. Just can’t take the fucking anticipation when it’s mine. Just don’t think it really matters when it’s mine.
I prefer roasting them just right for someone else. You’re holding this puff of manufactured sugar over a flame on a stick, the chances of it going well are slim. But you want it to. You want them to sigh and admit it’s the best fucking toasted marshmallow they’ve ever had. You have to hold your arm out for so long hovering there over the flames. You have to judge the appropriate distance between the heat and the prize. You have to know when to pull the gooey mess off it’s stick and let them eat it.
That’s the point, right? You don’t really think they’ll keep it, do you? You don’t really think they still want to eat marshmallow after marshmallow knowing there’s just another damn marshmallow on it’s heals; perfect and tan and sickeningly sweet, do you?
The excitement is in the toasting. The excitement is in having your sugar browned and not knowing if it’s going to explode in flames or drip into the fire below. The excitement is in getting it on the stick.
The rest is just getting the campfire scent out of your hair for the next camp out.
July 01, 2009
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