Jackson Jambalaya

Last week, a polar vortex blew through the region and New Orleans got eight inches of snow. I think that’s a record. We had a couple of inches in Hattiesburg—just enough to shut everything down and turn the South into a snow day for grown-ups. The night before the freeze seemed like perfect weather for chili, the kind of meal that wraps you in a warm hug on a cold night. My wife thought so, too. She suggested we invite some friends out to the lake house for chili dinner and, as she put it, “it would be fun to have some s'mores” for dessert.

There is nothing fun about s’mores.

I love chili. Chili is dependable. Chili makes sense. But s'mores? Nope. I’ve never liked them and never will. “No one really likes s'mores. They only like the thought of s'mores,” I said. She gave me that look that says, “Here we go,” and then called me a name I can’t repeat in this space. And maybe she’s right, but has anyone ever finished a s'more and thought, You know, I could go for another one of those sticky disasters?

It’s not that I hate the idea of s'mores. In theory, it all sounds good: chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers, and a bonfire. What’s not to like? But when you actually break it down, it’s a mess. Based on my research (read: two minutes Googling), s'mores got their start in the 1920s, when the Girl Scouts included a recipe for “some mores” in one of their guidebooks. Back then, they probably made sense. It was the Great Depression. Dessert options were probably slim. And if you had a campfire and some leftover marshmallows, that was about as fancy as life got.

But it’s 2025. We live in a world with cookies, brownies, and oatmeal cream pies. Yet somehow, s'mores have managed to stick around—probably because they’ve been romanticized to the point of absurdity. Again, people don’t love s'mores; they love the idea of s'mores. They picture a campfire under the stars, laughter, good times, out of tune guitars, and crusty old singalongs. What they conveniently forget is the reality: graham cracker crumbs everywhere, molten marshmallow burning the roof of your mouth, and a piece of chocolate that refuses to melt.

Let’s start with the marshmallow roasting process, which is where s'mores begin their slow descent into stupidity. Supposedly, the goal is to toast your marshmallow to a golden-brown perfection. But let’s be honest—when does that ever happen? You’re either standing too close to the fire and choking on smoke while turning your marshmallow into a crusty black flaming comet. Or you’re too far back, warming it just enough to make it sticky without actually cooking it. Either way, you’re left holding something that you cooked on a deconstructed coat hanger that looks like it’s been through a nuclear holocaust.

Then comes the assembly. You’re supposed to take your sticky, half-burnt marshmallow and try to sandwich it between two graham crackers and a chocolate bar. The graham crackers, brittle as they are, break the second you apply pressure. Meanwhile, the chocolate stubbornly refuses to melt, no matter how hot your marshmallow is. You’re left with a lopsided mess that’s impossible to eat without getting marshmallow glue on your shirt and graham cracker shards in your lap.

Then there’s the name, “s'mores.” It’s supposed to mean “some more,” as if one isn’t enough. Let me just say this: they should’ve been called “s'neveragains.” By the time you’ve finished one, you’re sticky, frustrated, and wondering why you didn’t just eat the chocolate by itself. Actually, that might be the one dessert in which the ingredients are all better eaten separately than as the recipe instructs.

I’ve had my fair share of desserts that didn’t make sense. My grandmother was a wonderful woman—warm, generous, and an incredible cook. Her fried chicken and leg of lamb was legendary, and she had a knack for making every meal feel special. But she had a soft spot for Jell-O molds, and I could never get behind those. Lime-green Jell-O with shredded carrots floating inside? It looked like it belonged in a science experiment, not on the dinner table. But I didn’t eat them. Not once. I loved my grandmother, but there are limits, even for family. Nostalgia can make people put up with a lot—lime Jell-O molds, bad casseroles, fruitcake—but s'mores don’t hold that kind of sway for me. There’s no emotional attachment, no warm memory to lean on. It’s just a sticky, frustrating mess that leaves me annoyed and still hungry. Nostalgia might excuse a lot of things, but it can’t save a bad dessert.

Thankfully, the chili night never happened, which spared me from having to endure the s'mores disaster. I imagine it would’ve gone something like this: a group of adults pretending to enjoy themselves while wrestling with flaming marshmallows and crumbling crackers, brittle, unmelted chocolate bars falling to the ground, and sticky marshmallows flying across the room. My wife would’ve been silent, knowing full well I was biting my tongue to keep from saying, “Told you so.”

I get why people cling to s'mores. It’s not about the dessert; it’s about the memory. The campfire, the laughter, the off-key singing of “Kumbaya,” and the shared experience. But the reality of s'mores doesn’t live up to the hype. There are way better desserts out there, ones that don’t involve sticky fingers, burnt marshmallows, and shattered graham crackers.

S'mores had their moment in the 1920s. It’s time to leave them there.

Now get off my lawn!

Onward.