It didn’t matter that the days were slipping into the seventies and eighties; I’d take my mom’s hot cocoa anytime. It was the kind she made from actual cocoa powder, mixing in sugar and other secret ingredients. Plus, as hot as the days could get in the high desert of Central Oregon, the nights got cold. “Marshmallows?” I asked hopefully. She grinned down at me. “Do I look like an idiot?” “Definitely not,” I said with an echoing smile.
