gothiccharmschool:

fucknofiretruck said, in response to the photos of the delicious-looking s’mores: Never had them, what am I missing. ?

Darling, you’ve never had s’mores?! You’ve never experienced the gooey pleasure of a toasted marshmallow (crisp burnt caramel on the outside, sticky melted fluff on the inside), stacked on a melting piece of chocolate, and layered between two graham crackers? I will admit, part of my fondness for s’mores is because to make them properly, you need to toast the marshmallow, which involves fire. (In the Great Marshmallow Toasting Debate, I obviously side with the set the marshmallow on fire faction. Flaming balls of sugar on a stick! What’s not to love?)

I think s’mores are one of those weird traditional American childhood desserts. The RealHusband (who is from the UK) is baffled by my fondness of them. He is also a little wary of any food product that involves me playing with flaming balls of sugar on a stick, because apparently I get really excited about playing with fire. To which I give my standard disclaimer: I have never accidentally set anyone or anything on fire, I am perfectly trustworthy.

Requiescat, Oscar Wilde, 1881

Wilde wrote this poem for his sister Isola, who died of meningitis aged 9.

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