Even better were the kind made hot and bubbling over a fire, expanded innards crackling beneath a pocked and ashy sugar skin. On summer camping trips, I couldn't wait for the sun to go down so I could skewer mallow after mallow, singeing them over the smoking logs until they were blackened like coal. Inevitably, burnished sugar coated my hands, mouth, hair. It felt exotic to eat those pristine curvilinear puffs, which resembled absolutely nothing in nature—except for maybe clouds—while in the middle of the woods. It was a delightfully manufactured reward after a long day of hiking and horseback riding. It felt plentiful to reach into a full bag, warm and petrol-scented after a day packed away in a hot car, and turn it into a mass of grilled sugar.