HG has noticed that some serious chefs are playing around with marshmallows, trying to create what could be called, laughingly, “gourmet” marshmallows. A waste of time. HG has always despised these little fluff balls of cloying sweetness. As a lad, HG allowed others to roast marshmallows over night time fires on Rockaway Beach. HG nibbled a Mr. Goodbar.
In a bow to mid-America, HG’s Mom sometimes abandoned East European cuisine and baked mashed sweet potatoes mixed with canned crushed pineapple and topped with marshmallows. Horrible.
The only pleasure HG ever derived from marshmallows occurred, in of all places, a 42nd Street porn shop. HG and his pal, the comedy writer, Peter M.. finished their naughty browse and Peter M. approached the manager. Peter M. looked furtive. In a quavering whisper, laden with perverse guilt, he inquired: “Do you have anything with marshmallows?” The sleazy manager thought for a moment and said: “No.”
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