Caprice went first with Sunny’s. She took a bite, chewed, then pointed the remaining half toward Ed’s lens. “Good color contrast. The huckleberry reads local, the caramel reads indulgent, and the salt keeps it from going flat. This is usable.”
Sunny frowned. “Usable?”
“I mean that as praise.”
“You’re terrible at praise.”
“I’m excellent at sponsor language.”
Joelle tasted next. “Good texture. Messy, but contained. The berry cuts the sweet. I’d want more graham support if kids were eating it, but for the camera and adult tasters, it works.”
Sunny nodded. “That’s fair.”
Ed picked his up like it might sue him. “This thing has more parts than my first truck.”
“Your first truck had three parts and tetanus,” Joelle said.
He bit into Sunny’s s’more. Chewed. Frowned.
Sunny leaned forward. “That frown better be reverence.”
“It’s good,” Ed said grudgingly. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.”
“Audio got it,” Caprice said. “Try to remember we’re working.”
Then they tasted mine.
Caprice lifted the plain s’more. “Visually, this is simple.”
“It’s food,” I said. “Eat it.”
She took a bite.
Her eyebrows rose.
That felt better than it should have.
Joelle tasted next and nodded once. “The toast is perfect.”
“Thank you.”
Sunny folded her arms. “Perfect is a strong word.”
“It’s the correct word,” Joelle said.
Ed took his bite, then stopped grumbling entirely.
Sunny noticed.
So did I.
Ed looked at the s’more like it had betrayed his cynicism. “That’s what it’s supposed to taste like.”
The meadow went quiet except for the low push of wind through grass and the soft pop of coals in the ring.
Sunny’s arms loosened.
I should’ve enjoyed the win right then. I should’ve leaned into it, let the old-school point land, let her fancy huckleberry caramel surrender to the thing people actually wanted from a fire.
