The S’mores Choir

smores pic

Today is National S’mores Day, so, even though she is away at camp, I’ve got celebrating with my daughter on my mind.

If there is such a thing as a S’mores Addict, she’s definitely one.  I, on the other hand…not so much.

She is unsettled by this difference of opinion.  I tell her it must be a cultural thing, that this quintessential American treat must not tickle my fancy because I grew up in Venezuela, where the closest thing to melted marshmallows was the leche condensada I’d have drizzled on the coconut raspados, or snow cones, for an extra 25 cents.  Hershey’s never made it into my mother’s pantry – that pantry was bursting with local Venezuelan chocolate favorites with names that sung: Samba, Suzy, Cri-Cri, Ping-Pong!  

It’s a tough sell.  Ever since my daughter, a native South Floridian, has been old enough to chew, she’s been consuming anything S’mores-related and trying her darnest to win me over to the S’mores crowd.

Obviously, there is a constant supply of Hershey’s chocolate, graham crackers, and marshmallows in our pantry at all times.

And then, whatever S’mores-esque products The Marketing Gods come out with, we must buy:

S’mores Pop tarts.

S’mores ice cream.

S’mores Rice Krispies Treats

S’mores Oreos

Even S’mores Goldfish!

My daughter promises me, with each new product purchased, that I will like S’mores this time around. I taste, hear Marketing Gods’ evil laughter and, well, tell her to go ahead and enjoy it, and leave it at that.

But my daughter is persistent, hopeful and never one to give up on whatever it is she sets her mind to.  I do love her for that.  So, when we found ourselves trying out a local restaurant, The Red Cow and I saw her face light up as she read the menu, I knew something was up.

“Mom, they have a S’mores brownie,” she announced. “You gotta, we’ve gotta…”

I knew the drill.

We’d get it.

I must try.

I will love S’mores this time around.

“Okay,” I told her, and the pact was done.

After devouring our Smoking Gun sandwiches the waitress placed the coveted dessert in front of my daughter, whose eyes looked like they were about to fall out.

Wait.

Something strange happened.

Did I tell you that part?

The part where I heard music.

Not the country music crooning in the background (that stuff always makes 12-hour smoked brisket and cowboy potatoes taste better, you should know.)

It was more like church-choir music.

For a second.

As she placed the plate down.

The plate, which, OMG…glowed.

Yes! Glowed!

Not in a creepy, chemically way, no! In a golden-spiritual-live-in-the-present-Buddhist kind of way.

This all happened in seconds, see. While my daughter’s eyes popped out. I heard music. I saw a glow.

Then I rubbed my own eyes.

Because I was a jaded anti-s’mores Venezuelan, remember?

So something must be wrong with my eyes.

This dessert looked…

“Mom, this is beautiful,” my daughter stated.

Yes! Beautiful! Took the words right out of my mouth!

What can I tell you?

I want to tell you the truth: as cheesy as it sounds when I’ll type it out.

I want to tell you what happened, exactly as it did.

I want to tell you that I saw the light. I saw the S’mores light!

There was this enormous cloud of perfectly melted marshmallow hugging chocolate and some sort of graham cracker crust underneath and perched beside it an utterly unpretentious scoop of vanilla bean ice cream and good God I wanted to snatch that plate away from my child, my flesh and blood, and devour it all myself.

But I didn’t.

I still have an ounce of composure and an itty-bit of restraint.

I pride myself in believing I am a pretty-decently-okay parent.

So, I grabbed the sides of the wobbly table and said, as calmly as I could:
“No darling, go ahead.”

“What?” My daughter asked, confused. “Oh? You want some, Mom?” She offered, watching me closely, witnessing change.

“Oh, sweetie, thanks, but, you, uh, you can, um, just…”

There’s a very important part of this story I’ve left out.

It’s about my daughter.

I told you she’s sixteen.

I told you she’s a S’mores Addict.

I haven’t told you how incredibly giving and perceptive she is.

You see, at that moment, while an imaginary S’mores choir sang and our tiny table for two lit up with delicious joy, my daughter, the S’mores Addict, pushed the untouched plate under my chin.

“Here Mom, go for it. I’m sure you’re gonna love it this time.”

I did.

I’m not sure if it was that soft, sweet blanket of surrendered marshmallow or the rich chocolate brownie dancing with buttery graham crust underneath. It all tasted magnificent in the company of my girl, smiling and savoring the moment with me, without even taking her first bite.

 

 

 

 

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The S’mores Choir

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