Hot dogs, marshmallows make for nice first campout

Making memorable weenies and marshmallows for the kids

I'm not sure I ever had a meal with more riding on it.

I've had anxiously awaited dates at fine restaurants; the meet-the-in-law dinner; an all-important lunch with the boss and her boss; sprawling holiday feasts.

This one, though, had me more worried about logistics, more knotted up with anticipation about how it would go over, and giddier with excitement. The meal? The first hot dog-and-marshmallow roast for a 4-year-old and his best friend.

This came as a package deal with the first camp-out. But you might've guessed that already.

Sleeping outside means eating outside, and there's not much I recall with more detail and smoky affection than long-ago nights circling a fire, trying to keep whatever you're cooking from sliding off a wobbly branch, half-terrified and half-hysterical about the rustling of who-knows-what in the woods.

I remember some of those camp-outs less fondly, when some of the kids were cruel or I woke up on the hard ground fervently wishing my folks were nearby. All the more reason why I had to be sure this first foray was nothing but thrills and sweetness.

The food itself couldn't be simpler: a brightly-colored package of dogs, a bag of smushy-soft buns. The boys wanted ketchup. The adults mustard. That's it. For a brief, mistaken moment I considered some kind of a vegetable as a nod to health, raw carrots maybe. Ridiculous.

And marshmallows. It was made very clear to me, through repeated requests and reminders, not to forget the marshmallows.

I intended to get the graham crackers and the Hershey chocolate bars, to surprise the boys with a s'more, that gooey, glorious concoction that can only be re-created at an outside fire. All indoor variations are pointless.

But with the collecting of wood, dusting off of old camping gear, and searching hardware stores for an appropriate fire pit -- no digging a pit in this suburban yard, with beds steps away since no one expected these kindergartners to actually make it through the night -- it slipped my mind.

I comforted myself that no one would miss the s'mores but me, since no one had been promised one. And it would be a surprise for a later excursion, if this one didn't end in fiasco.

Finally, everything was ready.

The boys helped set up the tents.

Everyone went for a short walk as a symbolic gesture for the hikes that will come.

They played maniacally with flashlights, until they got in trouble for shining them too often into grown-up eyes. The shadows deepened and the sky dimmed.

Then we began the practical pleasures of starting a fire: breaking up the kindling and crumpling the newspaper and precisely placing the first logs so everything will catch and burn just right.

At last, we had flame just as the stars came out, though we were too hungry to wait until it was good and roaring.

So the first round of frankfurters were only slightly cooked. A touch of char on one end, the rest just warm enough for to shake the refrigerator chill. But really, they're all precooked, so what difference does it make?

They were gone in a few bites, while round 2 went to the adults.

Surprisingly, the boys wanted to eat the marshmallows raw. They wouldn't even taste the toasted version. I was a bit mystified, but figured they had an entire lifetime to discover those caramely joys.

And still had the night ahead of us. As the boys skipped their nightly bath, drank water from a bottle and listened to the roar of the cicadas, I got the best affirmation I could've hoped:

"Camping is the best."

Next time (since they did make it through 'til morning), we'll venture farther afield and into the woods. We might even throw an ear of corn or two into the embers.