QotD: How will you toast your Marshmallows...?

Daddy could toast the perfect marshmallow. Patience was the key, he said. Holding it high enough, so the rising heat of the fire could cook it slowly, slowly. His marshmallows were a perfect even tan, a golden brown with a flowing gooey center. He’d straighten a wire coat hanger, bend it double and put three marshmallows on each end. Six at a time, perfect treats. He’d straighten hangers for my brothers, instruct them carefully. There were mishaps, of course, marshmallows that caught fire, blackened. Hangers held not perfectly straight, so that when the center turned to goo, the marshmallow would slide, often into the fire. It didn’t matter. He’d give them another handful of marshmallows along with tips on how to perfect the process, even as he slipped one of his golden beauties into a laughing mouth.

I was a girl, inept, stupid. A twig was good enough for me. My marshmallows were carefully counted out: four ought to be enough; I’d only ruin them anyway. I did, too, crouching near the base of the fire, careful to stay out of the way. Mostly mine would catch fire. Sometimes I’d get one end golden, only to find the center hadn’t melted. I’d look up, smoke stinging my eyes. Look up at Daddy’s perfect golden marshmallows, wishing for just one to come my way. Just one to sit sizzling on my tongue, waiting to burst in soft wild sweetness.

It never did.

(published in Insolent Rudder, Spring 2006)