It's A Marshmallow World

I am suddenly, and somewhat confoundedly, in possession of a new chiminea. I've wanted one of these things almost as long as I've wanted my own pumpkin patch. I like their look, their history, their comfort, their adaptability. I like to create fire and watch my creation dance and twirl much like a benevolent dictator, poking and prodding to achieve beautiful results.

So, I fired it up and broke out the marshamallows. And as four or five of us were roasting them, taking turns using my long handled, double pronged fork that is in no way meant for anything more than lifting a roast out of a shallow pan, I realized that our preferred method of marshmallow done-ness was just as unique as our personalities.

And, of course, there are memories attached to why we like our marshmallows burnt, browned, toasted, lightly crunchy or just plain raw. For me, I realized a shift had taken place somewhere in the last few years where I no longer prefer my marshmallows burnt to a bubbling crisp. Not because it has anything to do directly with age and maturity (I fight both as desperately as I can), but more or less I've stopped wanting to keep putting a bug up the ass of my mother's memory. As a girl, I used to very carefully roast my marshmallow to a barely bubbly, nutmeg brown on all but the bottom. It was time consuming and delicious. One summer evening, I have no clue where we were or with whom, but I remember someone in the teen-age realm burning their marshmallows to a deep black crisp and promptly pop it in their mouths. My mother shuddered in horror and had the look of sheer revulsion reserved only for those who truly offended her (or lived in Belton, but that was her personal problem). From that moment on, I burned my marshmallows to ebony, blew them out with great gusto, and relished every ooey, gooey chew. In front of my mother made it taste more delicious. [This is a recurring theme with me. I like bleu cheese much more because of our usual Sunday stops at Peutch's Cafeteria every Sunday after church. I would get a slice of iceberg lettuce, topped with a huge dollop of mayonnaise and crumbled 'fresh' bleu cheese. The retching sounds my mother made was only topped by her final refusal to face the table as I ate it. How I do so love to eat bleu cheese to this day.] Now, I have reverted to my original marshmallow personality. I toast slowly and methodically, thoroughly enjoy the entire process.

I have decided if I really want to know more about a person, I need to sit in front of a lovely campfire or chiminea and watch how they roast and eat their marshmallows. I'm sure I can learn a great deal about their personality. Or at least whether or not they freak out over the stickiness.

I don't know what it says about a person who doesn't even like marshmallows.