Ooey Gooey

Summer tastes like graham crackers that spray you with crumbs when broken, like marshmallows from a freshly torn bag, like sneaking a chunk of chocolate before the real fun begins. S'Mores aren't complete, however, without their entourage; The log benches, the fire pit, and lightning bugs, all beneath the summer stars. This is the place and time where their magic takes effect and memories are forged just as S'Mores are forged in fire. Therefore, let us this night revel in decadent interlude by firelight.

The sun dips. The fire crackles. The heat presses against our bodies. Laughter resounds throughout this hollow. The ink of night drowns out the light. Trepidation makes our hands tremble. We grip the skewer, impale one, no two, delectable puffs, then commit them to the flames. Fire scribbles its runes upon their hides. The marshmallows crack and bare their ooey gooey souls. They cry out for holy union.

Hershey awaits his bride upon the altar of Graham. The scene is set for glorious matrimony. We blow and lift the ashen virgin's veil. Now she descends upon the skewer. The angelic and the earthly are wedded this night. The guests all swoon as they kiss. Heat and pressure exert a formless influence. The two become one flesh and entropy seals their union. Their coalescence is the incense of Summer.

Nestled in their marriage bed, the honeymoon commences! Consummation leads to consumption. All are brought to silence when they partake of this Summer Eucharist. The play of textures calls forth an alchemical bliss. No other delights can boast of this. Crisp. Sweet. Decadent. The sacrament is devoured to the last morsel. We hold our sticky fingers up in reverence and complete our ritual with a closing chorus: S'More, S'More, I'll have S'More!

The marshmallow in the sky desires this communion. Its fullness awakens the pagan within we nocturnal celebrants. Holiness gives way to indulgence. Indulgence gives way to debauchery. Driven mad, we midnight lunatics hurl more tinder upon the pit. Spark and ash swirl, the fire's hunger never sated. We rend the vessels open, we pillage the sacraments. Restraint no longer has any purchase within this circle.

Oozing passion smears across hands and faces. We forget to breath. Crumbs drape across lips, clinging to melted effluence. Eyes once bright, now trance-like, become lost in smoke and haze. Hot, dripping, willing, our bodies worship this mallow-cocoa union. Moans of delight drown out the forest voices. Its denizens grant us a wide birth. Our Dionysian ecstasy reaches its zenith. We become the envy of all those lesser gods.

The afterglow of our labor burns within our chests. The remnants of this bliss hang on our tongues. Who else knows of this satisfaction? Certainly not the stars floating in their pools of ink nor babes floating in their amnion. No, this knowledge belongs to the merrymakers. We lay claim to this reverie like none other can, for who, except the heirs, can inherit this fortune?

Our comfort and succor had, we perform our ablutions dutifully. The water cleanses our flesh of all transgression. Sated, clean, we warm ourselves by our lurid host, slumped against one another, the flames dancing in our eyes. A moment more, our minds grow wings, and into the world of dreams we soar.

Morning breaks and cinders glow. We awaken from the slumber of kings. The palimpsest of that feast will haunt our days until we return for more. And so we shall conduct many more of these ooey gooey rituals. Our summer treat, S'Mores by fire, exemplifies the flavor of the season. No other confection brings such contentment. No grilled meat as much satisfaction. None but the holy trinity of graham cracker, marshmallow, and chocolate will deliver us unto the bliss of Summer's sweet release.

S'Mores.