How to S'more

Carlo sat at the campfire smoking his cigar. The blunt, brown roll of paper and tobacco complemented his bald head, bushy mustache, and tanned, weathered skin perfectly. It was his brown leathery skin that told you in a glance of the long lifetime of hard work and outdoor experiences behind him. I watched him from across the fire where I sat beside my husband, a man nearly half his age but still in his late thirties. Carlo’s boisterous voice paid homage to his Italian roots as he called out.

“Hey, Shirley!” He addressed the woman cleaning camping pots and utensils at the makeshift sink (i.e. plastic bin full of soapy water), “the kids want s’mores!” My children had made no such request, yet he spoke accurately on their behalf. He is my stepdad but for all the love in the world, their grandpa, blood or no blood, all rights reserved. Hardly a psychic, he was, quite simply, on their bandwidth. My mom and I often referred to him as one of the children, albeit one who now sat stoically, a small Yorkie curled up in his lap, cigar in hand. For all he looked like the crotchety grandpa, inside he was the gleeful child.

I could sense all the ears as they perked up.

“S’mores?” One young voice called across the camp.

“Oh! I want one!” Came another.

“Yeah, see, where’s the chocolate?” He didn’t actually get up to help get the chocolate, mind you. His comment was designed to rile the kids up further.

“Over there, in the cooler,” my mom called back cheerfully, her hands still covered in soapy water. She began the process of rinsing them off. She would delay the rest of the clean-up until later. Dessert was far more important.

“Here, I’ll help.” I hopped out of my chair

“Laura,” my mom called to me, “the graham crackers are in that bag over there. The marshmallows and chocolate are in the blue cooler. I got Hershey’s, Reese’s, and a bunch of different Ghirardelli's squares.” S’mores, for our family, had long since evolved beyond simply milk chocolate to include a plethora of different complex, yet still chocolatey options.

I got the graham crackers out of her dry food storage and fished the marshmallows and chocolate out of the cooler, but I didn’t stop there. I reached into a bag we brought and pulled out a box of waffle cones and a roll of tin foil, exclaiming, “oh, dude, Mom! I learned the coolest thing! You’re going to love this!”

“What’s the tin foil for?” Carlo questioned, not recalling that foil was necessary for any part of the s’more-making process.

I went on to tell them both about how my friend has this totally cool-sounding (yeah, I really do talk like that) way to make S’mores and I couldn’t wait to try it out. We were about to expand our S’more repertoire even further and I was excited! Sure, you could argue that there is nothing like the simple original: a square of Hershey’s chocolate and a hot roasted marshmallow sandwiched between two graham cracker squares. But what is the fun in life if you don’t do a little exploring, break the mold a little…try new things?

Before I knew it we were surrounded by young humans, beckoned by the mention of the word “s’mores”. A blend of his, mine, and ours, there was a total of five. Two were tweens (ours) as different as could be for a pair who had, 11 years ago, shared a womb. They didn’t even have the decency to share the same gender. One thing they did have in common was their love of s’mores. Then there were the three teens, all tow-headed boys who looked like blood brothers despite one (mine) being from an entirely different set of biological parents than the other two (his). Odd that despite having an actual set of twins, it was the eldest two boys, one his, one mine, about whom I was more commonly asked if they were twins. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed, tall, and skinny were both.

Carlo sat back in his chair with obvious satisfaction. He loved a good campfire. He loved a good cigar. But he took special pleasure in spoiling his grandchildren and perhaps even a tad bit of glee sprinkled in there at keeping Grandma Shirley, his partner these 20-some-odd years, on her toes.

“Wait, check this out!” I said as they grabbed at marshmallows to impale and roast. “Hold on, let me show you.” I took one of the waffle cones and began stuffing it with layers of marshmallows and chocolate. I picked a Ghirardelli with a gooey caramel center. As someone sensitive to sugar, I knew I was going to regret this. Go big or go home, or so they say, right?

“But then you don’t get to toast the marshmallow,” Amber complained, not fully appreciating the fact that I was stuffing the sweet ingredients into a waffle cone. A waffle cone!

“Yeah, but just wait, this is going to be awesome!” One could argue that I, too, am one of the kids. I was way more excited about this than I should have been. But…waffle cones!

“Well, I am still just going to make a normal s’more,” her twin, Kaleb, said matter-of-factly. It was seconded (or would that be thirded?) by their eldest brother, Michael. Half the kids began building their layers of graham crackers and chocolate in preparation for the hot, melty mess.

So far, the introduction of this new concoction was not going well, but I was not discouraged. “That’s okay! You guys can build what you want. This is just an experiment anyway. It might not even turn out good.” Okay, okay, maybe I was a little discouraged, but I was going through with it regardless.

“Ohh! That looks interesting. I’m doing that!” The second eldest boy, Alex, said with a huge smile and a voracious look on his face. My enthusiasm was instantly rekindled as he grabbed an oversized ice cream cone and began eagerly stuffing it with marshmallows and three different kinds of chocolate. Yes! I thought triumphantly. That’s my boy!

We wrapped our cones in tin foil and tossed them onto the grate above the fire while the others held their impaled sacrificial sugar pillows over the open flame. My mom, perhaps feeling bad at the lack of interest or perhaps genuinely curious, took up one of the waffle cones and began stuffing her own. I was sure she would not be disappointed.

We spent the next few minutes turning our treats, some on sticks, some with tongs to ensure even heating throughout. The foil began to blacken around the edges where flames danced in and whipped at it. One marshmallow on a stick caught fire, then another, and another. The boy on the other end of each stick quickly blew at the flame, one insisting he did it on purpose because that is how he likes his marshmallows.

My husband turned his slowly as a soft, golden color began to emerge on its surface. He was building a sandwich with his favorite candy, the Reese’s peanut butter cup. He was the one who had introduced us to the salty-sweet modification years ago, which had inspired the subsequent additions of various other chocolate products. So you could say our deviation from the standard s’more was the direct result of his original transgression.

Carlo took up the marshmallow-tipped stick my mom handed to him, handling it with an effort somewhere between the carelessness of the boys and the expert skill of my husband. He bantered away with the kids as they all tended their treats. S’mores, I realized, were the one treat we only ever did around a fire as a group. One could enjoy ice cream, for example, under any number of circumstances, alone as much as with a group. S’mores were set aside for just these circumstances, which made them, suddenly, very special to me.

Then things began to happen simultaneously and relative order turned to chaos. One by one, they pulled their marshmallow away from the fire. Seasoned s’more-makers, they each began poking at the crunchy browned surface of their marshmallows to test the viscosity. They shook and licked fingers stung by the heat of surfaces pulled from the flames just a moment before testing.

Molten hot goo was pressed between crackers, melting the chocolate into an equally gooey substance that oozed slowly out from between the hard crackers atop the sticky white fluff. Alex began to peel back the tin foil, exposing his own molten mess. My husband yelped loudly over the pandemonium as his perfect marshmallow, which he had tended to so carefully, burst into flame. Carlo gave orders to my mom for what kind of chocolate he wanted on his s’more (Hershey’s chocolate- ever the classic, just like he was).

“Thank you, darling,” he said with exaggerated appreciation as she opened the graham cracker/chocolate stack and, using them like paddles, smooshed the marshmallow and pulled it off the stick he held. Teamwork.

It was loud.

It was messy.

It was your typical afternoon with this crazy, modern-day Brady Bunch.

I tonged each of the tin foil cones and plated them gracefully, feeling very much the grill master despite s’mores being about the only thing I “bar-be-que”. I handed one to my son and set one down for my mom, who was helping Carlo build his s’more. Then I took my own and returned to my seat beside the fire.

I peeled back my tin foil to expose the not-quite liquid chocolate and white sugar goo that stuck to the foil as I pulled it away. Alex had taken his first bite and exclaimed that it was “so freaking good!” I took my own and seconded his critique with “oh man! Delicious!” It didn’t take long for our exclamations of praise to catch the interest of the others.

“Ooh!” Kaleb said in an almost fussy voice, “that looks so good!” He drew out every ‘oo’ for added emphasis.

“Bruh, I want one!” said Asher, the youngest of the teens.

“Can we do one of those too?” Amber begged.

The always taciturn eldest son, Michael, sat happily with his single s’more. No amount of novelty was going to draw him into indulgence. Like me, sweets were not his thing. Unlike me, he also did not care for the raucousness of the other kids, his parents, and his grandparents. He sat patiently for relative calm to return to the camp.

“Oh, now you want one?” I said to the three beggars sarcastically as I took another bite. “I can’t imagine why.” I made sure to highlight the deliciousness by taking a super slow bite and allowing the ‘mallow goop to stretch from the cone to my mouth like melted cheese. It eventually snapped, the sticky chocolate-laced string falling to my chin.

“Yeah, I didn’t know how it would be but it looks really good,” Kaleb said, matter-of-factly.

“Me too. I thought about just, like, chunks of marshmallow in an ice cream cone and it sounded weird. But now I want one!” Amber said. The twins were ganging up on me in that way in which twins excel.

“Oh, no, no, no. You only get one,” my husband cut in, playfully. “Too late for you!”

“Yeah,” I reflected his sentiment sarcastically, “you don’t need that much sugar. You had your chance.” I looked at them sideways with a half-smile on my face. “Sorry!” I shrugged.

Now I began to understand. How genius. So, here’s the plan: go for the normal s’more first. That way you are guaranteed a delicious desert while observing this new culinary invention— instant gratification with no risk. Then, upon seeing success, simply insist on trying one. Brilliant! I mean, if that didn't work they could have played the "it's not fair" or "how was I supposed to know it would be so good" cards. As it was, they didn't need to.

“Oh, come on,” Carlo came quickly to their defense. “They can have another one. They’re kids! Sugar goes right through them!” He turned to the kids and added, “I also have some Nutter Butters if you want those instead.” Saved by the 60-year-old man-child.

“Well, if grandpa insists,” I said with feigned resignation. “Everyone can have a second…but then that’s it!” I added the last bit with renewed conviction.

By the end of the night, I had eaten most of mine, the kids had enjoyed one of each, and my husband’s burned marshmallow had produced a perfectly delicious peanut buttery s’more regardless. Carlo had his s’more and who knows how many Nutter Butters, and my mom enjoyed her cone. Sure, most of us had stomach aches and no inclination to move for the foreseeable future, but we had all learned a great truth:

There is nothing like the sweet, comforting, melty goodness of the original Hershey’s chocolate s’more. That is, except a s’more with a peanut butter cup or flavor-filled Ghirardelli’s or a waffle cone stuffed with warm, gooey layers of s’moresie goodness. When it comes to s’mores, the original is just a starting point. A foundation. Inspiration for greater things. If you have a different way to s'more, who am I to stop you? Knock yourself out! Live it up! What’s important isn’t what’s between the graham crackers (or inside the waffle cone), it’s the time you enjoy with family and the satisfaction you get with that first sticky, crunchy, deliciously hot bite that really counts.

And from the kids: thanks, grandpa, for always having our backs when it comes to dessert!