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We shuffle around the fire, trying to escape the stream of black that undulates out of the pit. I dip the stainless steel cup into the pot of snow my husband has melted and lift it to my lips. I smell the smokiness a split second before I taste it; it has worked its way into the water, too. I give my daughter a taste. She crinkles her nose.

My husband unwraps some smoky bacon and slaps the slices into the cast-iron pan he hiked into the woods with earlier today.

This must be how I fell in love with him.

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