My family and I made s'mores no less than 3 times last week, and this frequency led to ingredient experimentation. A s'mores bar was assembled with a variety of chocolate, the fire kindled, the coals coaxed hot and the marshmallows impaled on sticks. I vote for either a dark chocolate square or half a peanut butter cup, smashed flat, placed between a toasty brown mallow and one graham cracker, left open-faced.
I imagined laying my beat-up wheelbarrow down like a baby in this gleaming wood-paneled bed of the orange-and-white '71 Chevy pickup for sale I spied on the road near the lake. Not that I would ever really use it for a work truck. Not that anyone's handing me the keys. But it was a beauty to behold, and though I can't own it I can paint a picture of it. Much less maintenance that way. I say this as I'm anxiously recalling my car's interior shuddering and currently blinking engine light. Unsurprising that I entertained the notion of cruising down the road in this dreamsicle of a truck.