Where There's Smoke, There's S'mores

I am not a summer person. I love the IDEA of summer. Waking to birds chirping. Days at the beach. Ballgames. S’mores. Barbecues. Peach, strawberry and watermelon festivals. Hell, any festival at all! They’re all awesome. Dining outdoors at an umbrella table. Fruity, overpriced summer drinks.  

But the reality of summer? Not so much. Shirt clinging to your back as you race to work each day. Only four days at the beach, two of which rained. Summer nights on the deck, the soft whir of mosquitoes buzzing your head as they launch a strategic assault on your person. A sultry evening breeze– thick with honeysuckle and the string of obscenities my husband mutters as the charcoals refuse to light.

Grilling at our house is an adventure, testing not only skill, but endurance. Do you really have what it takes? The blinding, acrid smoke– once the coals finally catch. The drinking involved to get you that far. The orange glow of flames licking at the sirloin that would have been dinner– had it not fallen onto the coals. The scorched veggies that you attempted to grill after seeing it on a cooking show. Because… how hard could that be? The charred but loving offerings served up after admitting defeat once again. The loving family dialogue at the kitchen table– (because it’s too effing hot to eat outside after an hour spent lurched over a grill). “Mom, it’s overdone. Underdone. Insert complaint here.” The carcinogenic risks involved in eating the tortured results. The bloodshot eyes.   

The upside? Long after dinner is over . . . the burnt offerings digested (maybe) the grill is now an inferno. Those coals are runnin’ hot. We could grill a twenty pound turkey now. I could grill a week’s worth of dinners now. Which can only mean . . . it’s time for s’mores. One more sacrifice to the alter of the barbecue. Marshmallows on fire. To celebrate the end of another glorious summer.