My favorite memories are of all the campfire nights with blistering hot dogs on a stick, scary stories (mostly about what happens when you eat those blistering hot dogs), melted s’mores, blackened marshmallows, and nonstop songs sung around a blazing fire with a full moon shining like a torch.
With winter just around the corner, I insisted that my friend and his 8-year-old son, who both had never been to camp and never enjoyed a campfire (with all the above accoutrements), spend an idyllic afternoon by a campfire on the shores of a nearby lake.
We overloaded the car with enough food for a tribe, plus folding furniture, books, and plenty of matches.
The 8-year-old was skeptical: “Are you sure making a fire is legal? Don’t we need a permit?” He queried us on the way. Kids today—they say amazing things.
We arrived and unloaded everything. It had rained hard the night before, and every fire pit and grill unit was still soaked as was the firewood piled nearby. I had been smart enough to bring some dry wood and a fire starter for just such an occasion.
We started the fire and smoked out every boater within a 2-mile radius. We were all hungry, so the 8-year-old’s father put on a half dozen dogs while I explained to the 8-year-old how Indians made smoke signals. He chimed in, “We sure have plenty of smoke, so we’d be really good!”
The hot dogs didn’t really cook; they just got black. We all looked at each other deciding what to do. Everyone dug into the pasta and potato salad and cooked chicken I had brought just in case. (I used to be a Girl Scout and know all about being prepared.)
The blackened dogs got put on a paper plate for a lucky (or unlucky) canine or a really ravenous raccoon, and we tried three more hot dogs on the grill now that the smoke had died down and there was a real fire glowing.
They cooked but still were blackened, so we wiped one clean and the 8-year-old took his first bites.
We watched and waited. His father asked warily, “How is it?”
“It’s good,” he said, relishing every bite.
He offered me one. “Oh, I’m full,” I said. “Maybe later.”
He asked, “Are these like you had when you were a kid?”
“Pretty much,” I said. “But sometimes our hot dogs would fall in the fire and we would have to find them so we could eat them or we’d be hungry all night.”
“Camp sounds like fun!” he said, clearly imagining kids being in charge.
We sat around the campfire, took a nature walk, waded in the lake, and had a grand time.
We offered the uneaten hot dogs to the owner of a frolicking black lab, who demurred saying, “Thanks, but he doesn’t eat hot dogs.”
Finally a cute pug devoured three, but only after her owner cut them into tiny bites.
“I bet that dog never went to camp,” the 8-year-old said quietly, and we laughed. Next time we’re bringing charcoal briquettes.
Humorist and freelance scribe Joyce Faiola is a consultant/designer for the hospitality industry and lives in New England. Her e-mail is JLFaiola@Juno.com
