Marshmallows

Earlier this week, I found myself staring into a bonfire roasting marshmallows. I don’t know when fancy metal skewers came along with two prongs perfectly formed for roasts and long enough to keep one out of harm's way. When I was a little girl, I would search the woods for a short stick. My father would take his pocketknife and whittle the end until the fine point would pierce not just one marshmallow but five or six. My marshmallows were never lightly toasted to a golden tan but blackened and charred and my beet red face almost singed from sticking my head too close to the fire. Even then, I would not be called patient.

I thought after 30 – 40 years without roasting marshmallows, I was ready for perfection. Standing patiently, I watched the sparks fly into the night sky and danced the metal skewer in and out of the flames. In the one second that I looked up to see a shower of sparks mingle with a falling star, my marshmallows burst into flames. I blew hard and again held the black, charred objects of my youth.

Someone stood ready with graham crackers and a chocolate bar to help me recall the gooey goodness of s’mores. I didn’t remember how to make them but after my first bite, I remembered the taste. I remembered childhood campfires and sing-a-longs. I remembered canoe rides and a young girl’s first kiss. Girl Scout badges, swimming lessons, rock and leaf collections swirled in my mind. The exuberance of youth, mixed with family love and security, warmed my heart along with the fire.

This Holiday Season may we open our eyes to the wonder of the moment and roast marshmallows until they burst into flames.