Tying your own shoes, taking off the training wheels, leaving the floaties at home, and learning how to make the perfect s’more is the first taste we get of “growing up.”
I remember a trip to Lake Powell for a family reunion when I was about 7. My grandfather scoffed at all my cousins who were sticking their marshmallows deep in the flames and pulling out a sizzling, black mallow. They would blow it out, then pop it in their mouths. My grandfather did not approve. He took great pride in a slow roasted, perfectly golden, gooey all the way through marshmallow. I remember him sitting there, teaching me to keep my stick away from the flames and instead hover it over the hot coals to the side. Slowing rotating, patiently waiting until it was about to fall off the stick, then you know it’s done.
I know, my pan is smaller… I cut the recipe down a bit because I didn’t large my larger pan.