Page 16 of Catch Yourself a Snowmance
“Wait til you taste it,” she says, as if I’m going to be the one eating that charbroiled disaster.
“I will,” I tell her with a wink. “Wait, that is.”
“Ah no. I’m going to make a convert out of you.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Give me a chance.”
“Only if you give a perfectly golden brown marshmallow a chance in exchange.”
I look around the room. All eyes are on us.
“Uh. Go ahead, guys,” I tell our friends. “Roast your marshmallows … or incinerate them. Don’t let us hold you up.”
Liam stares at me, so I look away toward Gage, whose eyebrows are trying to reach his hairline. I shift my gaze to Mitch. He’s got a lopsided grin as if he’s in on some secret.
“Okay,” Alyssa says, smiling up at me from her spot on the floor. “Deal. You make me a s’more—your best attempt at one—and I’ll do the same.”
“Okay,” I agree, wondering why I even suggested this insanity in the first place.
I don’t, as a rule, like burnt food. I’m no gourmetconnoisseur. I eat my share of game-day junk food, but in general, I eat relatively healthy, and definitely not-burnt food. Unless it’s a hot dog or a steak that’s charred. Then I’ll take a few black spots, but never completely scorched.
Alyssa hands me the bag of marshmallows. Our friends are taking turns roasting theirs to varying degrees of brown.
“Sit down here, Wolfgang.” Alyssa points to the spot on the worn, braided rug next to her.
“Wolfgang?” I raise a brow in her direction.
“Puck. Wolfgang Puck. You’re the chef of marshmallows, right?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief in the best of ways.
“Say that again, louder so the people in the back can hear you,” I tease.
“We’ll see. You’ll be calling me Julia or Ina before the night is out.”
“Julia or Ina?” I take a seat next to Alyssa, enjoying our banter more than I should.
“Childs or Garten. The female queens of chefery.”
“Ahhh. I think you’re …” I rub my chin thoughtfully. “... Ina. Or maybe I’ll just call you Contessa.”
“You knew who they were already?” Alyssa smiles over at me.
“I mean, I do sit around watching TV in my boxers, dusting myself in artificial orange powder most days.”
Alyssa busts out laughing. A few of our friends look over from their conversations, but they turn back to what they are doing when all they see is Alyssa cracking up. Mitch’s eyes widen a little. He tilts his head toward Alyssa in an unspoken question. I ignore him.
“So, there’s a method to the blackening of a marshmallow,” Alyssa says.
“A method? To lighting it on fire?”
She smirks at me. “Yes. A method. Youwant to catch it quickly and let it go until it’s all burnt and then the goo on the inside is perfection.”
“At least we agree on one thing,” I tell her.
“We do?”
“The goo. It’s the best.”
