Still in New York on a mini-vacation, I am shocked to discover that my second-to-youngest sibling is S'more Challenged. I know, I know -- it surprises me, too. It's hard to accept that someone related to me lacks inherent s'more coordination, but it is all true; every last moment of it.
My brother (said sibling) does a decent job of creating a small but well-coaled fire. It's a little breezy out, but we can easily fit the five of us (my brother, his wife, their two sons, and me) around the fire pit without too much smoke-in-the-face action. We have the usual shenanigans: marshmallows catching fire, marshmallows getting ash on them, and chocolate bars melting all over our hands and clothing. Mostly, however, our marshmallow toasting is pretty darn on point.
This is when everything goes to Hell in a hand basket.
My brother, who has toasted his jumbo marshmallow to absolute browned perfection, attempts to release the cooked confection onto his s'more set-up when the marshmallow has other ideas. The marshmallow adheres itself to my brother's hand. This causes mayhem as the burning sugar reacts with his skin, forcing his mallowy hand to swing wildly into the air above his head.
The jumbo marshmallow careens from his hand through the space-time continuum, completing an absolutely magnificent triple-gainer, and landing directly onto the inside of his left knee. The ensuing burning of the flesh and leg hair creates havoc, and he flinches, catapulting what is left of the now-imperfect marshmallow onto the grass beneath his chair. He sits in stunned silence, staring at his empty marshmallow roasting contraption as if he cannot comprehend what has just happened.
His wife and I, on the other hand, are howling with laughter.
My brother does manage to roast another marshmallow, this time making it all the way to the s'more set-up. We look over at his happy but chocolatey face, and realize that he has graham cracker crumbs all over his stomach and marshmallow smeared on his knee. Even stranger, the area around the spot on his knee looks a little burned, so I suppose we shouldn't have laughed.
But laugh we do, and, even better, the following night my brother repeats the performance almost movement for movement, except this time the hot marshmallow sticks to the exact same spot on the inside of his left knee. It's obviously painful (and smolders the leg hair and skin), but he is adept enough to smear most of it back onto the graham cracker, therefore saving his s'more. Probably tastes a little like singed leg hair, but it's okay.
My brother isn't nearly as s'more challenged as he had been, so it's progress. We toast (not marshmallows this time) with some sangria and watch the coals dissipate, safely covering everything with a wire screen so my brother and the marshmallows cannot be tempted a third time.
