It was brutal. Sick. Uncalled-for.
We had a spur of the moment bonfire at Grandma Jane’s house (a mini-orchard of sorts….4 acres of the world’s most neglected fruit trees). Sadly, the closest town’s grocery store, Selby’s, closed, and I had no choice but to hurry over to CVS in the hopes that they would have the fixins required for ‘Smores.
Hershey’s Chocolate Bars?
CRAP! I don’t have time to drive 15 minutes down the road to Harris Teeters for Marshmallows. I’m about to have a bunch of kids descending on my mom’s property and if they don’t have marshmallows to burn, lord KNOWS what they’ll come up with.
And then, like a rainbow-colored beacon of light on a stormy sea, there they were.
They would work. It was a crazy idea, but they. would. work.
I grabbed six or seven packages of them and hurried to the check-out counter, where, once again, I was reminded that I forgot to bring my bags in with me. ( And so, once again, refusing to pay the County’s bag tax, I juggled every package out to the car, in my arms. Cheap I may be, but not stupid.)
I had several children, all ten and under who would eat their ‘Smores, and be happy, by golly. The ends would justify the means. There was too much at stake…I couldn’t afford to be picky.
No Jury would convict me.
Everyone arrived. My Captain had a blazing hot fire roaring and crackling in the bonfire Ring in Grandma’s Orchard. Songs were already being sung. Spring Peepers were peeping. It was time to make the ‘Smores.
I took a deep breath, pulled out and skewered….
And purple Easter Bunny Peeps (and pink and yellow and green and orange, but I didn’t have the heart to show you the depth of my sacrilege.)
It was wrong on so many levels. I felt like I was committing some heinous sin… I feared I would cause nightmares or at the very least the foundation for years of counseling in these kids’ adulthoods as we watched the cute little critters melt.
But no. I’d forgotten that TV and other media outlets had already numbed them, and they merely laughed.
Uproariously. (Bloodthirsty little heathens)
Turns out, the sugar coating carmalized nicely and we ended up with a crunchy toffee coating on our toasted, er, Peeps.
And those ‘Smores, well, they were pretty dang yummy.
Like I said, the end has to justify the means. Otherwise, I’ll be smokin’ turds in Purgatory for YEARS.
and maybe a few more years, for good measure.
You forgot to tell them about the story you told the girls……..
Marshall will tell you that the bonfire is EXACTLY where peeps belong – back to the fiery pits of hell from which they came! Hahaha!