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.

Nothing From Nothing

"The problem with doing nothing is not knowing when you're finished."
--Ben Franklin

They're Coming To Take Me Away

I can't take it any more! The carts! The horror of the shopping carts! How can it be possible that people who will drive five miles farther to a cheaper gas station and walk an entire mall for an afternoon of shopping cannot be bothered to put their damn shopping carts in the little corral meant just for such a purpose?

I know, I know. There's a lot of things to really get up in arms about. The price of gas. Our troops in Iraq. Mel Gibson's anti-semitic slurs. [On the plus side: Tom Cruise has been dumped by Paramount Studios. I can't tell you what a gleeful smile that brings to my face!] But it seems to me that the whole shopping cart thing is reflective of our culture as a whole.

Gone seem to be the days when America was a "young", "brash" country full of cowboys and frontiersman. Gone are the times when we were known for hard work and the amazing power of overcoming obstacles, both man- and nature- made. Instead, we are now thought of as an overweight, litigious (did I spell that right? I'd look it up, but I'm too lazy) and spoiled society. A reputation we have earned. Goodness, I'm not wearing the same size that I did when I was 19, but I'm not suing McDonald's because they didn't staple my damned mouth shut when I hit the drive-thru. But at least I'm grown up enough to stock my vegetable drawer (okay, so it's stocked with Milky Ways, but it's still a stocked veggie drawer), drink water and exercise every frickin' morning. And don't think I don't bitch about it the whole time, too.

But, come on, people. Shopping carts!!!! You know why there's no cart return racks in the front quarter of the parking lot? Cuz management mistakenly thinks the store is close enough to walk the carts back. Allow me to snort as I laugh.

The other day, I was sitting in the parking lot of Stop & Shop in Narragansett, Rhode Island, waiting for Matt to return with plastic bags for dog walking and - more importantly - white chocolate Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. As I looked around, singing absentmindedly to "Barney: Live", I noticed an older gentleman parked a few cars up, facing me. He put the bags from the cart into his trunk, pushed the cart to the front edge of his parking spot, looked at me directly in the eye as if to say "What 'cha gonna do about it? Can't you see the 'VETERAN' plates on my car, girlie girl?" and drove off. Now, allow me to mention that the cart return was one - that's right, folks - ONE space away.

Even better, last week I went to Wal-Mart for the much needed hair dye and toenail clippers. I don't even bother to try looking for spots up close. Let the mother's of those younger than I have 'em. I was, however, lucky enough to find a parking spot right beside the cart return. Cuz I'm lazy enough not to want to walk any farther to take it back than I need to. I pull into the space and can you guess what awaited me? There, right next to the cart return, actually bumping up against the metal rails, was a cart. I mean, how lazy do you have to be NOT to put the cart back when it's TWO steps away?

Like I said, there's so many important questions to be answered in this life. So many things worth my anger and disbelief. But this one. This one is really the most important.

I saw a t-shirt in one of those catalogues the other day that said: "I'm not overweight, I'm American." Perhaps a few more trips to the cart return might help with that...