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Who Needs S’mores?

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I often talk smack about my mom on here. But sometimes, she does have a rare moment of happiness or fun. I was toasting marshmallows on my gas stove the other day and it was one of those things that made me think of her.

Toasting a marshmallow over the gas stove.  Not that that is my dirty stove.

Toasting a marshmallow over the gas stove. Not that that is my dirty stove.

We were not campers. I thought S’mores were only something that Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts made to get a merit badge. We didn’t have a BBQ grill or eat tacos until I was in middle school (She was fried steak and potatoes, all the way. Still is.).

But we would use a long meat fork and toast big marshmallows over the gas stove flame. It takes technique to not set it on fire. But it tastes so good when it is done (meaning half or completely burned).

Excuse the blurriness.  Hard to put out a fire while taking a picture.  Not that that is my dirty stove.

Excuse the blurriness. Hard to put out a fire while taking a picture. Not that that is my dirty stove.

Just note that you have to remove the marshmallow from the fork before consuming. Or you might burn your nose on the hot metal of the fork. Not that that has ever happened to me.

My mom did other fun stuff. Occasionally. We would go to the zoo. One time we chased the Goodyear blimp in the car because we saw it flying over a nearby field. She would race up to train tracks (not over them) so that I could watch a passing train. She could make up catchy rhymes about children who died 100 years ago. We would have strawberry shortcake for dinner. She let me skip 5th grade Field Day and took me to the lake instead. She took me to the lake and the pool, although she would never wanted to get in the water herself.

Today is her birthday and I salute her.
Without her, there would be no me.

I already have been known to turn around so my son could watch a passing train. I will teach him how to toast marshmallows on the stove. Just as soon as he gets past the “I don’t want to to be sticky” phase. (Wait…that is only MY little boy?!)

Just don’t tell my mom I have a blog, alright?

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One response »

  1. Pingback: Remember This?: Pre-Made S’mores | I'm not stalking you.

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