This past August, I wrote about one of my favorite moments of my summer vacation, up somewhere in a remote mountain lodge (it’s inevitable that dozens of Jewish families happen to find the same remote spot). Every evening after dinner, we’d take the skewers, marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars I had brought along and stand around the campfire, trying to get a good toast on our marshmallows. It wasn’t easy. We usually caught the tail end of the fire, when the logs were all burnt out, and there were just a few sputtering flames. We fought for position to let the weak flames toast our marshmallows.
The best part was when the marshmallows caught on fire: real toastiness.
When I tasted this dessert, I was back up in the mountains. But this time, I didn’t have to fight for the fire: because my kitchen torch is mine alone.