The stores and the television marketers would have you believe that S’mores are best enjoyed on a warm summer day with hot dogs by a lake. Perhaps the magazine ad executives would tell you that the delightful treat is the best way to calm an anxious tummy after a ghost story by the campfire. These are excellent places to enjoy a melted marshmallow engulfing a piece of chocolate as they lay between two graham crackers, but none are the ideal place for such a delicacy.
It’s early October in Texas, and the rare shift in the seasons can be felt in the air around you. For many, nearly every Friday night is dedicated to the local gridiron, cheering on their hometown heroes under the stadium lights. Countless more flock to college stadiums on Saturdays. Some will even combine the rush of the football game with the excitement of a trip to the Texas State Fair. This year, even our Major League Baseball teams are vying for the American League Championship Series. For those in the deep southern United States, this is the season of gathering.
The summers here are simply too hot for crowded activities unless they involve water. Those lakeside camping trips involve more time in the cooling hydration than nestled around a campfire. In Texas, the temperatures tend to cling to the century mark of the thermometer until late in the night, long after the sun has dipped below the skyline. Campfires are more of a novelty than a necessity and sometimes more a nuisance than a nicety.
There is no room to complain about the intensity of the heat as we enter the joy of the fall. As they say, the driest times bring the sweetest rain, and we find ourselves embracing the cool, gentle breeze. It is still warm enough to wear shorts and flip-flops, but just barely. We have waited months for the peaceful respite that accompanies the chill in the air.
If the days are meant for gathering, now that the air is finally pleasurable to breathe, then the evenings are made for retreat. We break away from the crowds that join us in soaking up the fall weather. We fade into a private recluse in a backyard. Stars barely appear through the tree canopy above the patio, peeking through the clouds as though attempting to observe this personal Eden.
Below the trees, a single strand of lights zig-zags above our heads. Even they keep a distance from each other as if to say they too are done with the crowds. Their dim lights offer just enough glow to make the scene visible, but not so much as to intrude.
Make your way down into an Adirondack chair with a cushion waiting to softly greet your back. You watch as we stack the logs into a large cauldron. The stack is neat. Two at the bottom. Another pair in opposing directions across the top of the base. Finally, two more running in agreement with the bottom couple. This modest square stack sits perfectly in the center of the half-spherical fire pit that will soon hold all the warmth in the world around you.
The kindling is sprinkled into the stack, creating a stark contrast to the neatly prepared tiers. Small chunks of wood and sticks are strewn about in flagrant disarray, but this is the closest thing you have to looking into a crystal ball. Soon the flames will dance within the stack with as fervent a disregard for the organized structure as these wood chips do now.
In truth, there are many ways to arrange the logs but all require some degree of structure. For some it’s a set of stacked square tiers. For others, it’s a raised teepee. While still others rely on stacked, even rows. This is a fundamental fact of life. We spend our time preparing structure and order. We learn to read and write. We make plans, and we chart courses. It’s never until the burning disarray enters our world that we find ourselves needing to move.
You watch as the first hues of orange and blue appear within the kindling. You can’t feel it yet, but you know it’s there. The warmth. All that is in you knows the thing before you is inherently unsafe, but you also know that you cannot ignore the warmth it offers. The flames move faster than your mind can follow. You can’t jump ahead of them; you are destined only to follow as they jump from one small piece to another. The ride has started and you are merely a passenger.
The fire guides you on a review of all that you know to be true. The flames move through the small wood chips in the same way that you learned to walk and talk. Soon the fire consumes slightly larger pieces as you are reminded of those milestones in your own development. Maybe it’s your first Little League game or your first car. Maybe it’s a graduation before the first log begins to ignite. It doesn’t take long after that before you find yourself sitting in front of an entire blaze contained within the bounds of the fire pit. You try to count the number of flames dancing before you but they move as fast as the day-to-day chores and the big events that have come and gone. This fire now has a life of its own, and from the safety of its confines, you can enjoy the depth of its warmth.
For a moment, let yourself feel the darkness around you. Realize the lights, the noise, and the crowds are gone. All that remains is the crackle, the heat, and the glow before you. And a small voice asking if it’s time.
You trace the pointed metal end of a long rod all the way to the round, wooden handle. You find the small hands clutching that handle and follow your gaze up the tiny arms, over the little shoulders to the enthusiastic smile on the face of a young boy. He hasn’t had his first taste yet, but he is ready for a s’more.
This is it. This is the reason for the flames. This is the reason you waited all day to escape the lights and the noise. All the excitement of the crowds cheering pales in comparison to the energy bursting from inside this miniature human, and this is the moment you have been waiting for. For just a single moment all of the chores and labors of the day are nestled safely in the confines of the day, like the logs, respecting their limits within the fire pit.
You can feel the coarse texture of the marshmallow between your fingertips. This plush morsel destined to feel both the heat of the fire and the warmth of a child’s smile sits dormant in your hand. You guide the treat to the end of the stick, even as you watch the rod shake with the excitement of its holder.
You work with the boy to line up his skewer above the flames, taking a moment for instruction as you do. The flames reach eagerly for the marshmallow, dancing as though they are enlivened by the joy of the child. You explain the value of a soft marshmallow kissed gently by the fire as the flames perform their best demonstration.
Youth is not a time best known for patience and restraint. Despite doing his best to moderate the exposure of his morsel, the combination of his excitement and the willingness of the fire is too much. Faster than you can speak, the white pillow at the end of the stick is surrounded closely by a bright blue ring. As your mind registers the event that has just occurred, the boy laughs triumphantly as the blackened dessert at the end of his stick erupts in fire.
You take a moment to watch the charring before you blow away the flames. Anywhere else this would be a magic trick, but tonight, it’s all part of the plan.
For most, the best part of the S’more is the fusion of the hot, melting marshmallow with the waiting chocolate delight. However, this little boy hasn’t yet learned to appreciate the bitter taste that chocolate brings to the mix of roasted sugar. For him, the charred outside is all the darkness he needs between those two graham-cracker bookends.
For just a bit, there’s an internal debate. You know the joy of that melting white river blending with the softening brown mass pressed firmly between those two dry but sweetened crackers. You hate to think of this boy denying himself that pleasure – but with just a moment more to reflect, you are a little proud of him. He knows the options available to him, and he makes his own choice. Small though he may be, in this instance, he is his own man. You know there is no other way to feel. You are proud.
He takes a bite, and his eyes close as strings of toasted marshmallows connect his smile to its source. The taste will only last a second before he needs another bite, but it is one powerful second. The whole treat provides only a few more minutes of pleasure, but the smile that follows gives you more warmth than that fire ever has.
Even the fire is calming down now. The logs that once glowed as they burned are now mostly burnt. It is all so temporary. The warmth of the flame; the taste of the sugar; the smile of the boy – it is all here for just a season.