When he was little, our oldest son, Kevin, loved birthday parties. It didn’t even have to be his birthday, he loved all birthday parties. For his own special day, he especially liked to be able to go up in his grandparents’ back woodlot and have a family weenie roast over an open fire. This was a challenge, since his birthday was in March.

His Nana would pack the frankfurters, rolls, condiments, beverages and chips in a picnic basket, since refrigeration wasn’t a problem in March, and off we’d go on our snowshoes to meet up with the fire builders, usually my husband, his dad and, when he was old enough, my son. After the sacrificial offering of two or three wieners into the fire, everyone perfected their technique and prepared their own fire-roasted hot dogs to eat slathered with mustard and relish. I usually spent most of my time watching over Kevin’s younger brother, Christopher, who was still a toddler and breathed a sigh of relief when we all arrived back at the house, unsinged and ready for cake and ice cream.

Since Kevin now has four children of his own, two of whom were also born in March, a few years ago we began re-enacting the family tradition. Now it was my job to pack the wieners, rolls, etc. and help make sure my toddler grandkids didn’t suffer from cold, hunger, or getting too close to the flames. In place of birthday cake, we substituted s’mores, that well-known delicacy made from layering molten marshmallows and milk chocolate bars between graham crackers—a recipe for the ages.

Thanks to my digital camera, there are now many pictures to relive this occasion, and every one shows someone stuffing a hot dog or “s’more” in their mouth.

This winter, history got a chance to repeat itself again Our younger son’s wife, Marcella, having heard of our birthday weenie roasts, suggested we have a mid-winter weenie roast. A subtle difference, to be sure, but we had to wait until mid-January this year for snow—what’s the point of trudging into the woods to have a winter cookout if there’s no snow?

When we finally had the prerequisite four to six inches of packed snow, plans were made. We decided to hold our cookout a bit closer to the house which proved to be a great idea, since I turned out to be quite forgetful as the cook-out planner; did we bring the mustard? The relish? Napkins? Being able to scamper down the hill and run 50 feet into the house was extremely convenient. Just as in the cookouts of yore, our two young grandsons, Oscar and John-Henry, four years and 10 months respectively, loved the event to a point and then demanded to be brought back indoors, cheeks red, tummies full, and nap-ready.

Having a weenie roast in the winter is a lot like what folks have come to know as barbecue, but it makes for better memories. My sons remember those birthday cookouts, I know I do, and hopefully my grandkids will someday, too.

Forgetting ingredients doesn’t really matter; if anything, that just adds to its memorability, as does mustard dribbled on your parka.
The best thing? No mosquitoes. Let the sun shine on your face and insulated body; smell the co-mingled aromas of smoke, pine trees and cooking food; listen to the breezes blowing through the pines, the red squirrels scolding, the jays calling to one another.

Call “pish-pi--r ” to the chickadees; look up and watch for them to come see who calls, and for the clouds going by in a sky that can only be that blue in winter. Observe the kids struggling to cook food that just might fall into the fire and char to a fine ash. Savor their smiles of pleasure as they sample the results of all this work. Suddenly, fast food seems far, far away, and pales in comparison.

2/21/2007