Roasting Bliss

Summer brings to mind long ago summers where my family would spend a week traveling through the countryside and camping out in state or national forests or local campgrounds. We’d usually spend three or four nights camping and then spend one night in a motel to clean up and reconnect with civilization.

There is something magickal about sitting around a campfire out in the woods watching the stars and the fireflies. Campfires seem to invite sharing stories and wisdom and we did a little of both around our fires. Camping also seems to create communities of strangers as kids and parents let down their guard and get to know the folks at the next campsite. I remember shared meals where we’d each cook our own meals and then sit together to commune about where we’d been and where we were going.

There always seemed to be marshmallows at those campfires and in the days before fancy storebought roasting forks, the kids would be sent out into the woods to find sticks that were perfect for roasting marshmallows. The perfect stick was thick at the bottom and thin, but not too thin, at the top. A stick that was too thin at the top would dump your marshmallow into the fire and one that was too thick would leave you with a marshmallow that tasted like wood.

Then there was the great debate about brown or black. Some folks kept their marshmallows far from the flame and turned them slowly so their marshmallows turned a beautiful amber. Then there were those of us who plunged our marsmallows deep into the center of the fire and ended up with a charred black nugget that had a sweet crispy coating and a creamy melted center. I’ve always been a burnt marshmallow type of gal and I’m not sure exactly what that says about my character. I choose to think that it means I’m brave and courageous and jump into the thick of the fire and then enjoy a sweet reward.

Campfires aren’t the only way to roast marshmallows and I remember when I was about ten sneaking out of bed to get a treat and finding my dad holding a fork over the flame of our gas stove roasting a hotdog. A little light bulb went on over my head and I realized that the flame of our gas stove would be a perfect place to burn (I mean roast) marshmallows. My dad indulged me and let me roast my marshmallows over the stove, but made me promise to never do it when he wasn’t around and to never tell mom. It’s funny, but the small flame on the stove invited the same types of conversations that roasting marshmallows around a bonfire did and my dad and I talked about work, about school, and about life.

At forty plus, I’m not quite ready to break out the sleeping bag and head out to the hills to camp, but I do miss the confidences and magick of campfires. Fortunately, I do have a gas stove, a bag of marshmallows, and some forks and believe it or not, it still conjures the same magick of those long ago campfires and makes me realize that sometimes the simplest things like burning food over a fire really are the best.