This is how this story ends. 

Though, I can say, this story doesn’t end badly.  No, any story that ends in clouds of white, fluffy marshmallows must, inevitably end very well. 

We decided to make marshmallows.  Ever since I saw Martha Stewart discussing marshmallows with her daughter, Alexis, I’ve wanted to see how they were made and (of course) do it myself.  Alexis claimed that they were very simple and oh, so EASY.

She wasn’t lying.  But then again, just because something is simple doesn’t mean you can’t get yourself all mixed up in it and try to mess it up, anyway. 

These are not the marshmallows we made.  Marshmallows need to setup overnight, so these ones were made by the one woman who knew what she was doing, the day before.  These marshmallows were very nice, indeed.  

Let me back up for you.  The Bee has the week off.  The Bee is my mother’s long time best friend.  The Bee’s oldest son is about the same age and childhood friends with my older brothers.  Now that they’re into their 30s, you can imagine that we’ve known The Bee and her husband for a long enough time to consider them more than just family friends.  The thing about The Bee is that she’s always, well…busy.  She’s constantly buzzing around, coming up with new ideas, working, reading, hiking…thinking.  She’s very busy, indeed.  So when The Bee took a week off of work for the holidays, you knew that there was going to be something going on. 

Since the Bee has the week off, she asked her friend, who knows a thing or two about making marshmallows, to come and make a batch with us. 

That’s how we ended up with the perfectly finished mallows in tow.

Martha and Alexis said that marshmallows are simple and they certainly are.  Sugar, corn syrup, water and flavoring are all it takes.  You have to boil them until 244*F (this is candy, after all) and then you have beat them until they get big. 

We really were doing fine up until the beating part. 

We poured in the hot, cooked mess and let the mixer roll.  We turned it up high.  The Bee said she’d never set the mixer that high before.  The recipe calls for 15 minutes at high speed, until it triples in size.  About three minutes in and the light, almost indistinguishable smell of burning begins to fill the air.  No fear.  Let’s make the mixer work.  We soldier on.  The thick white mass begins to double, then triple in size.  The twenty year old mixer which, up until this point has worked just fine, thank you, starts giving off a whining sound and the smell becomes more intensified.  We stop the beaters, discuss our options and turn it back on.

Suddenly the white begins rapidly creeping up the beaters and a giant mass forms on the underside of the mixer. We stop and scrape.  The situation is assessed.  Only two minutes left.  We persist.  Scraping and hoping, the air filling with smoke the timer finally beeps.  The glossy white fluff goes into the pans and the cooks, having survived the intensity of the moment, reward ourselves with a few tastes of the soft and fluffy mallow straight from the bowl. 

Sugar in pan, now its time to assess the damage.  The seemingly innocuous white fluff has made its way into the bowels of the machine, snaking its way through the air vents in the bottom of the handle.  Mom and The Bee clean away much of the mess which dissolves quite easily.  Some of the fluff has the tale tell signs of desiccated roasted, marshmallows.  The innards are a bit of a trick and The Bee and I find ourselves on our knees, Q-Tips in hand scraping at the last bits of marshmallow sticking to the insides of the mixer. 

Miraculously, we dislodge the last remaining bits of desiccated white.

Time to let the mixer cool down and dry.  Only time will tell if our little hero will make it through the night.  The marshmallow is cooling in the pan and the cooks are rewarded with a bite of perfectly made marshmallow.

The story doesn’t end badly.  How could it, when the ending involves white clouds of fluffy, gooey marshmallow?

"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.