For Father’s Day I gave my husband a fire pit. He quickly assembled it and started a fire. Once the fire was going we made smores. As we stuck the marshmallows on the wooden sticks we collected from beneath a tree I prayed that a stray dog didn’t do his business on them. (I’m referring to previous blog. To read, go to the proof is in the poo.) Blanking out such unpleasant thoughts I got busy roasting marshmallows.

The key to a good smore is all about the perfect marshmallow. Roast it to low and it’ll catch on fire.  Don’t roast it enough and it’s undercooked, unable to melt the chocolate, and what’s the point. When roasting, your marshmallow must be secured on the stick so it doesn’t fall off, into the fire.

While the kids and I were busy striving for the perfect marshmallow my husband and son-in-law was busy playing caveman with the fire.  As they stood, gazing at the fire, dressed as Fred Flintstone, with club in hand, they pounded their chests with their fists and in a caveman tone said, “Fire. Me like fire.” The caveman mentality that possesses men when they’re around fire, unconsciously leads to competition. My husband had a pile of newspapers to feed the fire. My son-in-law had a bigger pile. My husband moved a log, pounded his chest and announced proudly, “That’s perfect.” My son-in-law moved two logs, pounded his chest, rubbed his loin cloth and proclaimed, “Now, that’s perfection.” For such a small fire, there was big rivalry. One would poke, the other would poke. One would prod, the other would prod. I was tempted to measure their sticks.  But, I didn’t care who had the bigger stick; my stick was the right size to roast the perfect marshmallow.

I don’t really hate you, it’s just that if you were on fire, I’d roast marshmallows.. –Anonymous

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