Blame It on the Marshmallows

Before preceding any further, I feel I must explain the marshmallows. That, and I'm kind of in a marshmallowy-mood. And I haven't seen a Skittle in months and am suffering Skittle-deprivation. At least I still have chocolate. I would die without chocolate.

Marshmallows. For the first several years of my life, I was one of those boring, unadventurous kids who always liked her marshmallow toasted to perfection. A hint of soot, a smidgeon of ash and the marshmallow was ruined forever! Actually, I never really liked eating marshmallows because they always made my stomach hurt, but I ate them anyway because it meant I got the chocolate in the s'more and, well, I'd do anything for chocolate.

It was a couple of years ago when My-Incognito-Little-Brother-Who-You-Probably-All-Know-But-Who-Will-Be-Named-Bob-For-Many-And-Unexplainable-Reasons and I blew up a marshmallow in the microwave. If you haven't done it, I urge you to try; just do it in the summer so you can air the stink out without freezing half to death. Anyway, Bob and I placed a marshmallow on a plate and stuck it in the microwave.

Isn't it awesome how a microwave nukes things? Nuke is just such an awesome, violent word. Um... coughs... I shall try restrain my mad scientist laugh.

My brother and I sat in front of the microwave and watched the marshmallow cook. It's really, really, really cool. It expands with a juicy, methodical kind of slowness until it's about double the original size, and then the marshmallow starts turning brown, then black, and then oooooooozzzzzzzziiiiiinnnnng. The oozing is the best part of the lot. But for some reason, our microwave made the marshmallow smell. It was weird. The two of us got in trouble for making the house stink.

The marshmallow died a slow and tragic death. Such a so-o-o-ob story.

That's the marshmallow that turned me into a pyromaniac, actually. Ever since then, I've taken a demented pleasure, in burning my marshmallows. I don't eat marshmallows anymore, I just eat the graham cracker and the chocolate separately before roasting the marshmallow until it's black and hollow and nothing more than a crackly, old skin of a horribly, sugary substance that falls under the guise of “sweets.”

Mwuahahahaha.

I love marshmallows. They burn. Burn. Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!

Now I think this post-blog-thing would not be complete if I failed to mention Marshmallow Toast. Who is not me. No matter what a certain person might say. Actually, I don't really remember where Marshmallow Toast came from; but it was a nickname, for a person, and it was funny. And we laughed. And laughing is good. So I liked the name Marshmallow Toast. It fits Person-Who-Shall-Be-Known-As-Fred.

Although, marshmallow toast sounds awful as a food, doesn't it? I mean, that icky, sticky stuff spread over crunchy, crusty bread? Shudders.

So. Marshmallows. I think I have a love-hate relationship with them. Like I have with steampunk. I love to hate them. But mostly marshmallows. I try and avoid steampunk whenever possible. Not marshmallows. Marshmallows plus fire plus burning equals happy me.