When I was younger, I was tortured with marshmallows. Nearly drowned in them, I developed a strong hatred for them. By drowned I mean, my sweet, generous relative would purchase roughly every, single package of Peeps produced for the Easter holiday, and would stage them for us to awake to them, tormented by those beady black eyes and uni-ear.
But one night, the closing of Lincoln Cafe to be exact, I ordered the last dessert to be served in the establishment, and it was topped with a crispy marshmallow. I think it’s the draw of burnt sugar, but I was hooked. And then it got worse.
If I wasn’t researching them, thinking about making or burning them, I was shopping for them. Hip to my ways, Instagram planted Malvimallow in my feed. It only took me a few clicks to determine I should taste test them. Because really, who doesn’t buy themselves $25 of marshmallows for no reason? !
I still dream about the day they arrived, and I pulled them out of the microwave, laughing stupidly “Ha, they really meant it when they said 7-10 seconds” like I was 70 years old and I had just told my first joke. I’d melted them, a pool of mallow fluff kept the two cookies in marriage. But that didn’t ruin the seriously, mind-blowing deliciousness. Seriously. serrrius.
I think about that day I spent with them. The way you look back fondly on that first, and only, date with an amazing, intelligent, attractive person who disappeared and you don’t know why. But in this case, I know why, I ate them. The salty sweet shortbread cookies, and the perfectly sweetened mallows in the middle. They had a chew and cushiness that made the cookies bounce up when you squeezed them. One day, I’ll see those Raspberry Hibiscus beauties again, and until then, I’ll keep dreaming.