The Slow-Cooked Sentence

To the point

Rachael Conlin Levy
Photo courtesy of wpholmes

My husband and I took the kids to Sizzler for dinner thanks to coupons from the library’s summer reading program, and as I was packing the diaper bag I saw one of my 7-year-old’s pick up his new pocketknife and slide it into the Velcro holder attached to his belt.

“Can I bring my knife, Mom, to cut my steak?” he asked.

“They have knives at the restaurant,” I replied.

“Yeah, but can I bring my own?”

“No. Let’s leave it at home until we go camping at French Meadows.”

Reluctantly, he slid the knife and holder off his belt. The next day we headed up into the Sierra Nevada mountains. After a four-hour drive that led us through deep gorges, across Foresthill Bridge (which sets a California record at 730 feet), around at least 600 hairpin turns that prompted vomiting from the backseat, we made it to our campsite.

The door opened, the kids spilled out, and within 15 minutes, my first son was back at camp with a potential marshmallow stick and poised knife. Five minutes later, his brother came rushing back with his own. They whittled and broke tips, rushed off for new sticks, whittled some more. That night the marshmallows slid effortlessly onto the wooden spikes, were patiently turned over coals until toasted a golden brown and then slipped between two graham crackers and a chunk of Hershey bar.

I think they made a stick each night, but I’m sorry to say I can’t be certain because each time I’d polish off one’s gooey creation, the other would be standing at my elbow offering me S’more.

One response to “To the point”

  1. So very glad the boys are enjoying those trusty knives. What better use could be made than to make Mom S’more?

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