We spent a long weekend last on the shores of Lake Michigan.
It was the first time I’d ever laid my 39-year old eyes on a Great Lake.
Quite taken with the dunes, the need for a sweater on a September morning or evening (but left behind at the house by noon), the old-school ferry that traverses the tiny sea from the port at Ludington, the smooth rocks that mingle with sand on shorelines. I decided this was the beach of my bones, my blood (where somewhere, deep down, lies Irish, I’m sure).
Two nights of shore-side campfires, we did what you do, and made s’mores. By the end of the fire, between adults and offspring, figuring out the best method for optimal balance of toasty/melty marshmallows, gooey chocolate, and lightly toasted graham cracker.
I decided that what the s’more really needs is salt. Wouldn’t a layer of salted caramel sauce, or peanut butter, do just fine?
A future campfire by the shore will have to tell. Though I think I already know the answer.
End-of-day, my 5-year old son called it. The Best Day of the Whole Entire World.