Marshmallows and Me

Ever since I was very small, I have had bad luck roasting marshmallows. My first memory of a marshmallow is sitting in front of a campfire at some campsite or other, watching in mild frustration as my marshmallow bubbled and burned on the end of a long stick and then dropped like a flaming comet into the campfire where it promptly exploded, sending white goop shooting in every direction. Now, while this was all rather fascinating, it was not what I had intended for my marshmallow to do. So I gave up simply watching the sticky white stuff simmer in favor of crying and whining and carrying on about look what the stupid marshmallow had done and why couldn’t mommy just roast it for me? So I guess I didn’t get off on the right foot with marshmallows, and things never got any better between the two of us.

My first time to overnight camp, I was determined to master the art of roasting marshmallows. I failed miserably. I got my first chance at the opening campfire, when everyone was making s’mores. Of course, my marshmallow burst into flame as soon as I stuck it in the fire, and I jerked it out and blew on it until it stopped flaming. I was left with a smoldering black mass on the end of my stick, which I regarded with mild disappointment. I had been hoping to roast a perfect marshmallow on the first try. But this turn of events was not a problem, as I had just learned from a friend how to flick the black outer layer off, and get to the gooey white inside. So I flicked my stick, and then watched in horror as the black coating set off on a collision coarse with my counselor’s shirt. Time seemed to slow down, and I felt like I should say something, but I couldn’t make a sound. At first, my counselor was silent, too. She just stared down in surprise. Then it struck her that she had a large, sticky glob of burnt marshmallow on the front of her previously clean shirt, and she let out a sort of strangled shriek. I made myself very busy getting my chocolate and graham crackers. For a while after that, I just stuck to un-roasted marshmallows, ignoring the inquiring looks that I would receive from my fellow campers, but eventually I decided to try again.

Towards the end of a later campfire, I accepted my marshmallow and strode purposefully over to the fire. Squeezing in between two other girls, I held out my stick, making sure that I kept the marshmallow close to the flickering embers. It started to bubble, and then brown, and I turned it in an attempt to create to an evenly roasted marshmallow. Just when I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, this might be the time, some little pyro started waving around a flaming stick – I think it had a marshmallow on it, but it was hard to tell – and, startled, I dropped my stick. I realized all too late that I shouldn’t have let go. I watched my marshmallow sizzle and melt into the coals, and could feel my hope of roasting a perfect marshmallow beginning to melt away as well. Now, most people would have just given up at that point, and admitted humbly that they had no skill whatsoever when it came to roasting marshmallows. I, however, did not allow myself to be deterred. At the closing campfire, I made a final attempt at reaching my goal.

This time, mimicking some of the other campers, I held my marshmallow just above the reaching fingers of flame, and turned my stick slowly. To my immense satisfaction, the marshmallow began to turn a perfect golden brown. One of my counselors (not the same one who had had the previous run-in with my marshmallow) walked by and smiled.

“You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?” she said in her British accent.

“Yes,” I lied. “Yes I am.”

My marshmallow – my perfectly roasted marshmallow – chose this moment to slip off my stick and fall into the fire. I stared dumbly at my now-empty stick, and then at my marshmallow, which was masquerading as Mt. Vesuvius, and doing a pretty good job.

“Would you like another marshmallow?” asked one of the counselors.

“No” I replied. “I think I’m done for tonight.”

Note to the reader-
If it makes you feel any better, I did roast a perfect marshmallow the next summer. Of course, I never got to taste it, as my s’more was knocked out of my hand by an over-excited camper (who was not actually excited about my marshmallow roasting skill). But that’s alright - I wasn’t really hungry anyway.
May your marshmallows always be perfectly roasted.
-JL