The first one.
All the particular attributes required examination in detail. Notes were taken.
The texture...alien.
The shape...pleasing, but inconvenient (cannot fit in mouth all at once).
The roastability...somewhat lacking.
The tackiness...adequate, perhaps better than previously imagined based on accounts of experienced young friends. Not sure it can be used as glue, but maybe temporarily.
The coverage...thorough.
The flavor...undoing.
The homemade version didn't fare as well to a flame as we all hoped, but any disappointment on this point faded only just shy of immediately when the first gooey bite entered your mouth. It was like watching a scientist at work. Your expression became grave as you carefully lingered through bite after bite. You had watched me measure the syrup, pour the batter into the pan, poke them every hour to see if they were ready to cut. You watched and waited while the fire was built, watched and waited with a sharpened stick at the ready. But nothing prepared you for this, the joy of silently devouring your first roasted marshmallow, the sticky sweetness that would spread all over your face and fingers, the way the maple could sing in its new, spongy context. Gravity was lifted into a fit of giggles, the scowl of deep concentration replaced by a wide, gooey grin.
All I wanted to do in that moment was taste it with your tongue.
Four years later, you've requested maple marshmallows instead of birthday cake for your bonfire party, and I will think of that moment I wanted to taste your first marshmallow bite with you, to discover it as a shiny new pleasure. There have been other homemade and store bought versions in your life in between that moment and this weekend, but none have been examined with such intensity, nor experienced with such explosive delight. I wonder, with all your big-kid friends around you, around the fire...will that moment flash into your consciousness? Will your tastebuds tingle, just a wee bit, at the memory? Will you be aware that you are remembering the love I poured into that pan, that sweetened every bite more so than the maple?
Perhaps you do know what I mean, when I tell you the story about the molasses-milk, and how tasting it always takes me back in my memory to the foggy moments after your birth.
So, we'll go on a journey, then, with maple on our tongues, away from the bitter cold of this early Spring, to memories of grass under our feet and golden sunlight sinking on a warm afternoon, molten marshmallow lava running down our chins. Happy birthday, baby.
Reminds me of another marshmallow birthday celebrated in that same spot almost three years ago. My favorite part of those marshmallows was texture between the dusting and the sweetness below. I am asked so often when we will resume our camping trips (preferable with less rain).
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