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Well, originally I intended to make this post all about the wonderful world of marshmallows, then I had to track down certain siblings to inquire where the marshmallows had disappeared to, because they were nowhere where I left them.
So, to make this work, I’m going to take a different train of thought. M is for mystery.
The mystery of the missing marshmallows.
|Found from Becky Gould on flickr.|
Are you with me?
This is going to be serious.
And…you’re laughing. I can practically see it.
Ha. You’d better know that I’m serious about this. These were MY marshmallows. I had my eye on ’em. See, they were going to be part of a big project.
The Sara-wants-to-roast-oversized-giant-marshmallows-before-the-end-of-summer-project. It is a rather large undertaking in the project department, especially where the outdoors are concerned. Certain preparations must be made, including the initial finding-and-prepping the perfect roasting stick.
Now, back to the mystery. It could be any of four unnamed culprits–no, wait, I can actually add in a few other suspects.
See, marshmallows are special, rare objects to certain parties found in few kitchens around the world. I’m sorry, did I say objects? I mean to say ah, culinary individuals, yes, that is far more–polite, yes?
Mr. Sweet Potato agrees with me. He mentioned something about a special holiday casserole and crunchy, crispy crusts. I did not stick around to hear exactly how crispy he wanted this crust to be, because his current residence was located between a dark kitchen cabinet and metal vegetable holder. *shiver* Creeptastic.
Anyhow, I took the tip from his friend, the lovely Miss Idaho Spud, to visit a certain Ms. Honey C. Graham. That turned out to be a wasted trip, because all she did was gush over how wonderful marshmallows could be when sandwiched between her and a few friends. Yikes. Never mind.
I took the hint from her and hunted down the famed Cadbury Milk Chocolate, a quiet young thing hiding in the cookie jar behind the kitchen florals on the side counter. He informed me that he no longer associated with a certain Ms. Honey C. Graham and hadn’t seen wisp nor spot of my missing marshmallows. He politely offered me a sample for the road, as I explained that the lack of new clues was nothing new and that the search must go on. He agreed. I took the sample.
My searches took me far and wide–almost right back to the grocery store. That’s when I discovered the awful truth. *shudder* Believe me, it was absolutely horrible. I had visions of roasted marshmallows dancing in my head–quite similar to the dance of sugarplums, just in case you were wondering–and I finally took this troublesome case to my mother.
My mother, a lovely and wise woman, calmly listened to my
tearful hysterical puzzling tale of those mysteriously missing marshmallows. The conversation was somewhat as follows.
“…and so I can’t find them. I know I put them in the cart and that means they came home, so why can’t I find them anywhere?”
“Yes, Mom, the marshmallows. If they’re in that kitchen, then somebody ate them or kidnapped them. I’m inclined to think it was a combination of both.”
“Okay, hold on. What did they look like?”
“What? Mom, it’s a marshmallow. It looks like a marshmallow. All marshmallows look like marshmallows. You know-“
“Well, if it’s the big bag you put in the cart last week, I took those out and got you cookies instead.”
“You liked the cookies.”
And that, dear blog readers, is why this post is about nothing more than mysterious marshmallows that exist on some faraway realm of imagination. My humor wears thin to non-existent at this moment, so my thanks to you for reading this far. Be sure to keep an eye on your own marshmallows, you’d be surprised what can happen when you don’t keep an eye on them…it would seem they have the habit of turning into cookies without your permission.