Summertime S'mores

I don’t know about you, but to me, there’s no food more synonymous with summertime than the humble s’more. I’ve eaten many over the years and they just seem to get better with age.

Whether I’m sitting around a bonfire with my friends watching fireworks or camping out under the stars with my wife and dog, biting into a crisp graham cracker, gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate just enhances the experience and makes me nostalgic for all the summer nights past.

But there’s one night that sticks out to me. The first time I had ever had an honest to goodness s’more at a summer camp that doubled as a ranch.

I was fourteen at the time, and the camp counselors had given me the nickname “The Terminator” due to my insistence on wearing sunglasses at all times, and my ability to keep a straight face through every situation. A few of them made it their mission to make me laugh before the summer was over, and I thank them for it. I didn’t know it at the time, but I suffered from crippling social anxiety covered by a mask of calm indifference.

But anyway, summer camp was glorious. Swimming, horseback riding, hiking and of course, campfire songs complete with food.

And that’s where the s’mores come in.

See, thing is I’ve always loved making sandwiches. Grilled cheese. Pastrami and rye, and the ever classic peanut butter, honey and banana. S’mores were no different, I realized. They were a sandwich. But a sandwich that required an open flame.

I’m a city kid, born and raised, you see. I’d stuck marshmallows on a fork and held them over a stovetop before, but this was different. Primal. As I hunted for a stick that was thin enough not to destroy my sugary treat, but sturdy enough not to snap, I felt like a pioneer.

Once in front of the fire, I had to do my prep. I’d realized that some of the other kids had made theirs backwards and that made assembly hard. So I got my graham cracker and snapped it in half, balancing it on my leg as I tore the foil off a bar of chocolate. Snapped that into a nice, even squares and put it on the crackers. Then and only then, did I jab the stick into the marshmallow and thrust it into the flames.

Now, I’ve heard a lot of discussion on what makes a proper toasted marshmallow. Some people say it needs to be a nice golden brown all the way around. Others claim it needs a light scorch so that it’s still solid in the center. I’m in the third camp. I left it in there until it was blackened and crispy, until a single touch would cause it to turn into a melted puddle. It tastes better that way; you get some char, and it melts the chocolate fast.

Eating that was an experience. One I quickly repeated. Alas, we were each limited to three in the name of fairness, but I think I could have eaten more. Even now, the thought of those little sandwiches makes me nostalgic for the summer days of my youth; water guns, lemonade and running through the sprinklers.

I’ll never forget that summer camp, or the memories I made there. Every time I eat a s’more I’m transported back there, to a simpler, easier time where the only thing I had to worry about was if my cabin mates were going to quiet down and line up so our cabin could enter the cafeteria.

It doesn't feel like it was over a decade ago, but it was. I've learned a few tricks since then. These days, I use cinnamon graham crackers and rich, dark chocolate with my marshmallows, and they pair nicely with an Irish coffee as easily as they do with milk.

But you know something, occasionally, when I’m driving down the highway with the sun at my back and the open road ahead, I recall the taste of burnt marshmallow on my tongue, and the smell of wood chips mixing with the scent of off-brand melted chocolate.

And when I do, I smile.