My husband and I went camping in the Shenandoah Mountains in Virginia on our honeymoon. Borrowed his folks’ trailer for it; we did it civilized style, y’all. Even if his grandmother got his little sisters to sneak open the camper and throw rice inside the sheets beforehand.
We were toasting marshmallows over a campfire one night–I mean, isn’t that one of the reasons people go camping? The marshmallows? You’ve got to find just the right stick for it, you’ve got to get the fire burning down to just so. There’s an art to it. Besides, when you’re learning all about this new person you’re now married to “for time and all eternity,” and he’s 22 and you’re 21 (and a half–don’t forget that half) and you’re just starting your way into life in the first place, really, who knew that he had the patience to hold that stick there like that, waiting and holding his high, turning it slowly like a spit till the entire marshmallow was (for him) just the right shade of medium brown all over and an even temp throughout? But why would you want to do it that way anyway? Isn’t the glory of a campfired marshmallow having it burn to a satisfying crunch on the outside while totally melting on the inside? Heh. I could not only cook but also get to eat half a dozen of mine to the time of his one, easily.
It’s all about the marshmallows.
Yeah, the skunk agreed with that assessment. And also Richard’s way of cooking the things. It sauntered out of the woods, came up between us while we sat there frozen in place, disbelieving–reached over, grabbed his perfect marshmallow off his stick from right over that fire , and sat back to savor every last slow bit of it. Taking its time. The way a marshmallow ought to be enjoyed.
With its tail caressing my new husband’s arm.
He had this look on his face, turned towards me, pleading with me with every molecule in his being, please don’t laugh. PLEASE don’t laugh.
It was all I could do, but I managed not to laugh. Or move, either.
It finished up, it ambled off happily, then it called its friends and threw a party. Bunch of gate crashers. By the time the four skunks we could see were dividing up the rest of the bag on our picnic table, we were well out of range, following their antics with our flashlights.
I’m sure nobody sells skunk-shaped chocolates; I may have to get my sweetie a bag of Campfire marshmallows for Valentine’s. He’ll know why.
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