The Boy strikes a match and holds it against a jumbo marshmallow until it’s aflame. It takes almost everything for the match to ignite the treat, its entire life used up for just a small patch of marshmallow. After just the right amount of char, he extinguishes the candy torch with a swift breath and sets the used match down on a paper plate. The lighter, empty of fluid, sits discarded next to the plate. Then, he strikes another match and begins the cycle again. I stand in the pantry doorway, observing his strange ritual. Minutes pass in silence until the entire marshmallow is soft and gooey, and deliciously, beautifully crispy.
Though I had been watching in delight, our friends begin to protest. The perfect marshmallow should be delicately golden brown, warm and gooey inside, but still soft and creamy on the outside. The Boy’s marshmallow is far too crisp.
But I just smile. I’ve always been one to set my marshmallow on fire, watching it burn like a sun until it changed from white to black. Sink my teeth into the gooey center, watch as the blackened outside peels away to reveal the inside still fresh and pure. I’d usually peel the “skin” of it off, push it onto my tongue and then drop the flayed marshmallow back into the fire.
I take a deep breath. Before I even open my mouth, I tell myself, he’s gonna say no, but I make myself ask anyway because it’s something I never do.
Can you roast me one? I haven’t had a s’more in years.
You can do it, there’s matches right here.
I want one made by you, though.
Oh, you want someone else to make it for you. I see how it is.
No, I mean, I like how you did it.
Uh-huh.
He ends the conversation with just that. I sigh, not surprised or disappointed. It’s just what I expected, but at least I tried. I move on to my next activity, pitter-pattering about the dining room as he makes another s’more with that same, silent focus.
–
I am completely immersed in my own activity in the adjacent living room when The Boy calls out to me.
Here, yours is ready, he says.
I don’t register what the words mean at first, since there wasn’t remotely a thought in my mind that he might roast a marshmallow for me. When I step up to the counter, I find that not only is there a beautifully charred marshmallow waiting for me, but it’s sandwiched between two graham crackers with a melting pillow of chocolate pressed into it.
He hands me the s’more and moves on quickly, not even looking at me from the moment he hands it to me and joins the others in the next room. Astonished and filled with warmth, I manage a thank you as he walks away, holding the plate with immense care.
I eye the sandwich treat incredulously, unsure how to eat it. Surely, I must have had one before. I’ve roasted so many marshmallows; there is no way that after this long I’ve never had a fully constructed s’more. And yet, the longer I stare at the treat, I can only remember eating each of the iconic s’more ingredients separately at every s’more occasion. Could it be true that this is the first s’more anyone has ever made for me?
I sink my teeth into the treat, crushing the layers of graham cracker, thick chocolate, and hot marshmallow together. Each texture entirely unique, molds into one strange amalgamation on the tongue, creating the fabled “s’more.” It’s well balanced, and sweet, and tastes both familiar and strange. I love it.
It’s such a simple thing, a traditional summer treat on a paper plate. And even though it was done with complaints and a disgruntled grumble, I can almost imagine a stamp on the bottom of my dessert that reads: made with love.