2006-01-07
a fireplace would come in handy
In Vermont, Dad and I used to sit around the fireplace and roast marshmallows. He would send me out into the backyard in search of sticks. When I found the perfect V-shaped branch, we'd stack a string of Mini Puffs to the tip. Sitting downstairs in the den, we'd talk until the marshmallows turned the right shade of tan. The crusty black bits were the best part: charred and flaky. Then came the gooey middle, so hot it burned my tongue.
After a while, Dad got so busy, commuting back and forth to his new ad agency, he didn't have time to chop firewood. Mama bought Duraflame Crackle logs from the supermarket. They snapped and popped like a canned sound effect. "Burns clean for two hours," it said on the box. "Easy lighting strip on wrapper. Made of wax and wood shavings."
Mama made me put away the sticks. She didn't want clutter in the house. So what? Dad and I didn't roast marshmallows anymore.
"You can't roast marshmallows on a fake log," she told me. "You'll get cancer from the chemicals."
When she wasn't looking, I melted an entire box of Crayolas on the metal hearth. I started with one crayon and then I couldn't stop. The wax left a rainbow-hued mess, which Mama didn't find until later. She made me scrape it off with a butter knife.
Today is the coldest day I can remember in Florida. Last night, it rained. Only a few more degrees south on the thermometer and it would've snowed. Instead, it just drizzled. I sat under the Christmas tree, which has lost most of its needles, and sipped a mug of hot chocolate: the kind that come with instant marshmallows. They melted so fast, I forgot they existed.
f-i-n at 12:16 p.m.