half cooked hotdog = heaven

I planned out a wonderful meal for family night - whole wheat penne pasta, apple gouda sausage, fresh french bread . . . and then our neighbor called.  He was on his way over, chainsaw in hand, to take down two trees I'd been complaining about.  We donned our work clothes and headed out to work alongside him.  As we carved the trunks into perfect logs my soul longed for a summer cookout.  I left my men to the work and ran to the nearest grocer.  Hot dogs, buns, chips, marshmallows, drinks, self checkout, record time.

The smoke swirled up from the fire pit as we set up our camp chairs.  Plates, napkins and utensils were banned from our festivities.  One hand in the chip bag while the other roasted hotdogs over the crackling wood.  

"Mom, my hot dog is on fire."

"Mom, my stick isn't long enough." 

"Mom, my leg hairs are being singed."

"Mom, please pass the chips."

"Mom, I need ketchup and mustard."

"Mama, where is my hotdog?"

When everyone had enough food to keep them busy I speared a hotdog for myself.  Black and bubbly on one side, slightly warmed on the other, too hungry to care.  It tasted divine. 

And then the marshmallows.  Perfectly golden, soft and gooey, melt in your mouth.  Each last one cooked to perfection.

As we scrubbed the campfire from our children's hair that night I was giddy with the promise of summer.  

"Everything is right with the world," I said to no one in particular.  "Everything is right with the world."