Emily pulled out the economy-sized Hershey’s chocolate bar and as she began to break it into thumb-sized pieces she remarked, “You two can each have one piece. The rest are for me.” She flipped over the packaging and read, “Serving size: 5.”
Tara cut in, “It’d be perfect for you … if you were five people.”
I was distracted by Aunt Mel prodding me with a long oddly-shaped stick that Rob had roused from the yard. I grabbed it reluctantly. “I don’t really like my marshmallows roasted. Well, I guess I’ll eat it as long as it’s just lightly golden.”
The rest of the family was incredulous. No, no. If you do it that way, your chocolate won’t even be melted. It will be one solid hunk instead of a gooey mess that drips down your fingers and onto your clothes. No, no. It’s best when you allow it to get really burnt—or better yet, catch on fire so you have to blow it out.
I ignored them, refusing to yield in a situation where I could end up with dark chocolate stains down the front of me. I happily ate my treat without dripping anything down the front of me, studying the Christmas lights twined around the tree. I squinted and unsquinted my eyes, making the happy sparks glitter and fuzz, then sharply clear and come into focus. I imagined my parents a state away on a trip, and wished suddenly, urgently, that they were here to see the sparkling stars glimmering only ten feet in front of my eyes.
Emily tried to make Grandpa a S’more but had difficulty in getting the angle right. Her mom kept urging, “Just sit on the ground. Settle into that dirt; it’s really comfortable.” She had urged me the same thing also; that was how I knew my marshmallow was done. But Emily is always a good sport and settled in as she watched not one, not two, but three marshmallows fall off her stick and into the dirt. Just as surely as her marshmallow would go up in flames, it would fall off her stick and into the fire.
“Oh well,” Melody said philosophically. “It’s just adding a nice scent to the fire.” The hypnotizing flames, bellies full of food, and atmosphere of family cheer were making us intoxicated and we all laughed with good humor found usually only on Christmas night after the younger grandchildren had disappeared into a bedroom to play with their various games while the older grandchildren, myself included, listened to our parents discuss memories from their childhood.
Our voices got cheerier and more boisterous until we three girls, Emily, Tara, and I, were shrieking with laughter as Aunt Mel and Grandma auctioned graham crackers (regular and chocolate), marshmallows, leftover cake, and two 16 ounce bars of chocolate on us. As an afterthought, Mel shoved a bag of potato chips into a Ziploc baggie and asked who wanted them. The contents of my shoulder bag were already so full my arm stuck out ala Randy in A Christmas Story, so I figured how much could one more bag hurt. I held the straps open as Melody wrestled the chips in without crushing them. Amidst waves of good-byes, more giggling from the girls and Mel, and a studied walk down to the curb so as to avoid crushing the plants, we could hear Grandma advising, “Now girls, don’t eat that chocolate all in one night.”
We piled into Emily’s car, careful to avoid the seat that had gotten wet in the carwash, and laughed all the way home, stomachs hurting at the thought of all that delicious food that would be awaiting us tomorrow.
