Graham Crackers were created to stifle the libido. Marshmallows are a sickly-sweet, cloying blob that, when properly heated, becomes a sort of confectionery napalm, a substance suitable at first for administering serious burns and then cooling into the world’s most maddeningly effective adhesive.
Chocolate’s fine, I guess.
But the cultural persistence of smores can be attributed to nothing other than the twin forces behind all cultural decay: nostalgia and bad taste. And while smores certainly do taste bad, it’s clearly nostalgia that does most to ensure their continued presence. This is how the world ends, bursting into flames over a campfire.
But seriously, fuck smores. Fuck covering your hands with a sticky mess at the one context when you’re least likely to have access to running water. Fuck the cutesy apostrophe in the name, offering us a glimpse of a world where we delegate branding to old church ladies. There is only one “s’more” that is valid, and it belongs to Busta Rhymes.
Campfires are wonderful. Hell, open flame in almost any non-arson, non-cross-burning context is pretty great. And nearly any foodstuff one might prepare on said open flames are likely to turn out delicious.
Why, then, sully a potentially-great moment with a sugary, sticky mess simply because it reminds you of some scouting memory of youth that’s been made fuzzy and improved by the fog of memory? Make your own wonderful moments. And burn your smores in a fire. You’ll have a plausible excuse for how it happened.