Today, I want to look back to a time when I was very poor: in finances and in common/kitchen sense. College. I spent seven years at the University of South Alabama, first getting a Bachelor’s in English, then going straight into my Master’s work in English with a Creative Writing specialization. To say that I was mostly locked inside, reading novels, critical pieces, prose and poetry…and writing essays, psychoanalysis journals, research papers and poetry is no hyperbole.

Of course, I’ve always been one to work hard and play harder. During my first year at South and residence in Hillsdale, I learned that one can, in fact, survive on Ramen Noodles and beer, with the occasional indulgence of pizza and liquor. By my junior year, however, I’d moved to one of my parents’ rental houses in Chickasaw (paying only utilities, thank you, Mom and Dad!) and had graduated from Ramen, to a more balanced, yet inexpensive diet of chicken leg quarters, pasta, tubed hamburger meat, Great Value brand everything…you get the idea.

Despite, or perhaps caused by the restraints of my college-years’ budget, I developed craving seasons, we’ll call them. One section of my college life was defined entirely by my craving Caesar salad. I could afford Romaine, cucumbers, croutons and dressing, especially at produce stand prices. But I’d splurge on the dressings, having both the creamy Caesar and the tart Raspberry Hazelnut Vinaigrette (yes, both on each salad). The pink mixture satisfied something all the Shakespeare had wrenched out of me, and I drudged on, ecstatic to toss ideas around with professors and classmates, saddened to return to my cluttered living room for more sessions of read-until-eyes-hurt, sit-and-type-till-behind-hurts.

At this point, I guess it was Freud and Lacan making me crave S’mores. A front yard propane grill, rusted undercarriage held up by cement blocks, provided a lovely line of blue flames for roasting marshmallows. Graham cracker, Hershey’s chocolate, warm and gooey Marshmallow to slightly melt the candy bar, then another Graham cracker top hat. Those moments of books and laptop aside, chocolate and marshmallow sticky face seemed to say, it’s okay to be a kid, shirk responsibilities for a while and taste with that area all around the lips. Marshmallows stretched into strings like cheesy pizza while the crunch of crackers complimented the otherwise soft mixture.

This was usually an after dinner indulgence, but during one, unsuspecting, weekday lunchtime…the craving hit! Books snapped closed, computer fan hummed and I walked with a purpose toward the kitchen. Ingredients gathered, I was disappointed to find that the grill spit and sputtered under the weight of the tiny, blue flames, then poofed in resignation. I stood there for a few minute, debating whether or not I could figure out how to unhook the propane tank, and if I could justify wasting all that time when I should be studying. Nope. I would allow a five-minute S’mores break, not a 30-minute tank exchange. There had to be another way. Being a yummy-scented candle fan, I first tried stabbing the gooey, white orb with a fork and holding it over a vanilla-scented jar candle. The single, yellow flame struggled against the curves of sweetness, and faltered.

Well, I wouldn’t give up that easily. Back to the kitchen I marched to stand in front of the ELECTRIC stove. Memories of my mother drifted in: she’d turn the knob on the gas stove until it clicked and lighted, pull the stepping stool up in front of the oven, and I’d climb the steps to help roast marshmallows over the flames. Flames, being the key concern. I decided that the electric stove would get hot enough to brown my dessert, seeing as how I wasn’t a burn them to a crisp fan anyway. Patience was all I’d need. I turned the burner on high and watched it glow orange as I held the Marshmallow over the eye.

I’ve never been a very patient person. I set the fork on a saucer, turned the stove off, crossed my arms over my chest and began to scan the kitchen for another idea. Ah ha! The microwave! Of course, modern-day American’s wouldn’t need to stand over antiquated flames with stick or mutilated clothes hanger. I’d place the marshmallow on the saucer, remove the fork, and pop it in the microwave. Why hadn’t I thought of this before?

One minute would do. I set the microwave and began preparing the bottom half of my S’more. As I finished, a few seconds remained on the timer, and I moved closer to peep in the window at my roasting Marshmallow. I seem to recall it starting out at about one-inch in diameter…but the small white circle had blown up to about 5 times its original size. The dull, white exterior had been replaced by a shiny, almost iridescent hue. I reached for the door in a panic—as it seemed likely to explode at any moment. I pulled the saucer out and set it on the table. As I observed the concoction, I decided that my S’more was not lost, but enhanced. I’d discovered how to make Marshmallow Crème and would smear it on top of my chocolate, eat my S’more, and get back to studying. Really, this was going to work.

As I dove in with my butter knife, Crème became a far cry from describing the saucer contents. Liquid cement might be closer. I think I could’ve sealed a water leak or hung a shelf on the wall with the mixture, instead. It was so sticky, that it seemed to pull against the butter knife, challenging me to remove it from the burgundy saucer it had staked as home.

I relinquished and threw Sir Stichiness into a sink full of hot water and soap. I returned to the living room, lifted the oversized book, and forgot to listen as the house grew quiet again.

Not-So-Same-Ole S’mores

Place a square of Graham craker on a plate.

Top with:

2 rectangular pieces of chocolate bar

a toasted-over-a-flame Marshmallow

a Maraschino cherry

a pinch of confectioners’ sugar

a pinch of finely chopped nuts

and another Graham cracker.