Grandmommy and Grandaddy's house is that they let the grandkids cook over the campfire pretty much whenever they want. In fact, my parents are so committed to Campfire Dining that right outside the kitchen on the wall above the little deck—that my dad built a couple weeks ago—hang all the necessary instruments. When my children return from a visit, their clothes pungent with wood smoke, they regale me with tales of Golden Toasted Bagels, All-You-Can-Eat Hot Dogs, and The Perfect Fried Egg Ever.
The other evening when we had supper at their place, my younger son cooked the asparagus—my contribution to the meal—over the fire. Later that evening, my younger son tried to bake a chocolate chip cookie a la pancakes (it tasted ridiculously horrific), and the kids begged to do s'mores. Meany that I am, I said, No chocolate and only two marshmallows each, do you hear me?
They still had fun. Of course.
This same time, years previous: the quotidian (5.19.14), rhubarb streusel muffins, and caramel cake.