My sister was staging a protest: That's it, I'm done.
I don't blame her. She worked hard, harder than any person in his or her right mind should ever have to. The party was over, and the crowd was down to my parents, Margy, and me. My sis agreed to grill the leftover burgers and dogs for tonight's dinner -- after doing everything your way this weekend, I told her, I'm not about to risk overcooking your hamburger. But s'mores were where she drew the line. Alas, you're not looking at a treat crafted by the sure hands of a trained pastry chef but rather at one clumsily assembled by her non-s'more-seasoned brother. Still, it went down nice and was a good cap to a few days of eating and drinking and generally making merry.
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