Post Image Me, Honey and The Boy went to Wal-Mart Sunday night and came home with one of those wrought-iron fire pits. I had no idea that such a purchase would have an impact on my weight-loss, nevermind a good one since we did buy it with the express purpose of using it to roast some giant marshmallows we picked up at the grocery store a few weeks back.

We had a fantastic lunch of roasted pork loin and sauteed veggies (which I shall tell you about in another post!), so dinner was a bowl of cereal on the patio while we watched Honey assemble the fire pit (sans directions, of course). Then there was building the fire.

Honey is the manly-man sort, and I really love that about him. But the man is no boy scout. In clarified terms: he can't build a fire to save his life. In defence of his ego, I have to say that I don't think it's a matter of skills or lack thereof, it's just plain old bad mojo. Case in point: there have been times when the man couldn't get a Duralog to stay lit.

Anyway, miricles happened Sunday night and after two tries, Honey lit the thing on fire. I was so proud. Granted, it took some coaching from me (Don't pile all those hunks of wood on top of it, Honey, you'll smother the poor little flame!) and a lot of twig-gathering from The Boy, but at last we had a miniscule blaze in our little pit. Remember, in Texas during a drought, anything more would have made me nervous.

We sat around the fire for a good half hour. We swatted insects and waxed nostalgic. The smell of the smoke brought me back to childhood camping trips and, specifically, eyeing a campfire from my perch on a yellow training-potty while utterly nekkid. (Yes, I remember things from when I was two. I remember my first birthday party, too but don't ask me where I parked the car at the store...I don't remember.)

Anyway, on the heels of my memories of potty-training camping trips, The Boy piped up:

What about those marshmallows, Daddy?
Not one to delay a sugar fix any longer than necessary, Honey immediately went to help him get out the fixins for S'mores. I find it interesting as they came back out with arms full and began to arrange ingredients within reach of their chairs, that The Boy inquired as to the number of points in a S'more. I guessed seven. I might be wrong.

I had budgeted points for a single one of the oversized marshmallows. Those sugar-puffed suckers were three times the size of a normal mallow and were going to cost me two points, so one was plenty. I skewered my victim and proceeded to burn it crispy and black, just the way I like it. It was murderous, waiting for it to cool enough to eat without burning my tongue and, lemme say, it was two points of sugary delishiousness! As I popped the last bite in my mouth, I was thinking about another one. I had the points. I could if I wanted to. I could have two more, in fact.

But I waited. How unusual. That's when it happened!

As I dallied in my decision, the sweetness faded away, leaving only the bitter taste of burnt ash. It was awful.
We all know that the old Sazzy wouldn't have waited long enough for that taste to begin with. If she had, she would have quickly covered it up by cramming another roasted mallow down her gullet. The new Sazzy did not.

I can hardly believe it, but I thought to myself: Geez, that was hardly worth it! And I got up, went inside and brushed my teeth.

More amazing still, I accidentally forgot to eat my last five points before bedtime. I didn't even realize it until this morning! It makes me wonder at how I used to ignore my taste buds in addition to all my body's other communications regarding food. It's amazing what can happen when we stop medicating ourselves with food, or just eating out of habit, or eating because something is supposed to taste good. How many times have I eaten something decadent when my mouth wasn't really thrilled with it to begin with?

Thank you, Marshmallow! Thank you, Firepit! I appreciate the memories and the lessons, too!