Jackson Free Press

I grew up cooking, and I am happy to say that over the course of my 30 some odd years of life, I have had few food-related injuries. I have rarely cut myself in the kitchen, even when shucking oysters as a kid. I've never had food poisoning. I've even picked and eaten wild mushrooms without getting sick.

Unless being hooked in the foot while on a fishing trip or getting stung by a jellyfish while floundering counts, the most traumatic food experience I've had over the course of my life was in connection with a marshmallow. Yes, I said marshmallow.

For unrelated reasons, marshmallows have been on my mind. I just sent my mother a box of marshmallow-filled Moon Pies as part of her Mother's Day gift; she lives in New Jersey and is Moon Pie deprived.

I recently gave my students miniature marshmallows and pipe cleaners to use in a construction activity, which of course means that there are still marshmallows hidden in various places in my classroom.

I've also been thinking about the Gulf Coast and the now-absent house that I grew up in. Oddly enough, thinking of that house in Long Beach and its four fireplaces also led me to marshmallows. That is where my marshmallow incident occurred, thereby firmly forming in my young brain a serious dislike of these fluffy, sweet treats.

One winter night when I was 5 or 6, my father let my friend, Bear, and me roast marshmallows in the dining room fireplace.

We both straightened out a metal coat hanger to use as a skewer, jammed a fat marshmallow on the end, and stuck it in the fire. I managed the marshmallow-skewer assembly a little sloppily, but I managed to get it done. The drama began when I removed my skewer from the fire.

Picture, if you will, a small, hyper child attempting to blow out a flaming marshmallow that is being wildly waved around on a flimsy coat hanger. It was trouble waiting to happen. I mean a 6-year-old plus fire and sharp objects? After a few minutes of frantic waving, I did finally manage to get the thing blown out, but not with my mouth. The fire was extinguished when the flaming molten blob hit my face. I had a charred marshmallow stuck on my nose.

My screams brought my parents into the room. My father got there first. Let's just say the only time I've ever seen him laugh harder at me was when he was teaching me how to drive a standard.

My mother, however, was horrified. After simultaneously yelling at him and attempting to comfort me, my mother took me to the bathroom and did her best to remove the sticky mess.

I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the black, crusty marshmallow residue stuck to my face and thinking that my skin was peeling off. (Ironically, the only time I ever saw my mother angrier at my father was several years later when my skin really was peeling off after I got a blistering sunburn.)

Other than being red and raw from being scrubbed, my nose was only slightly injured. Apparently, the marshmallow protected me from any real damage from the actual flames.

Possibly a lingering result of this childhood trauma, I still don't eat marshmallows. No Moon Pies, no S'mores, no Peeps at Easter. I also don't eat anything cooked on a coat hanger—generally a good rule of thumb, along with never drinking anything made in or served from a trash can.

My marshmallow exposure is now intentionally limited. I am thankful that my worst cooking injury to date came in the form of a flaming blob of a sugary confection, and not, say, a knife or pot of boiling water.

Of course, there may be some bad broccoli or an exploding jar of grape jelly lurking in wait for me in the future. With me, you never know.

Hershey Bar Pie
1 graham cracker crust
16 oz. Cool Whip
6 Hershey bars
1/2 c. milk
23-24 large marshmallows
1 c. chopped pecans or almonds

Melt marshmallows and 5 1/2 Hershey bars in milk over low heat. Stir and allow to cool. Add half of the Cool Whip and all of the pecans. Pour into crust and chill for at least four hours. Cover with remaining Cool Whip. Grate the remaining 1/2 Hershey bar and sprinkle on top.