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We're a weenie-roasting family, but until now the weenie-roasting was a little more seasonally appropriate. My grandpa, uncle, and I have birthdays in late October, and that's when we used to set fire to our food. But recently my parents bought one of those patio-sized fire pits on clearance, and my mom decided that there would be no finer way to celebrate Christ rolling away the rock than to stab some tube steaks and set them aflame.

You know the awful cold snap that's hit the midwest, killing crops and causing havok? I think my blasphemous weenie-roasting kin might be responsible. I'm sorry.

Despite the fact that it was 27 degrees with a wind chill of "My God, my tit just fell off!", some of us brave souls loaded into the surrey for a ride:

That's my dad, family pal Blake, and Chiggar in the front seat. Clara Jane and I sat in the middle. The Peep Reaper and B. sat in the back. And all of our faces fell off from the cold.

Out of the 2309 people who attended the weenie roast on Saturday night - seriously, I don't know where all these people come from; our family's not very big - only a few of us were hearty enough to brave the cold: the two pre-adolescent boys, B., Peep Reaper, and me. You might recall that B.'s from Up Nort' - Michigan's Upper Peninsula, where he was raised in the woods and most of his meals were cooked with fire, often after being run through with an arrow. He was in his element and barely set foot inside all evening, opting instead to stay in the cold and seeing what would be tasty fresh from the fire. At one point he was muttering, "That spot right there ... the flames are perfect. I wish I had a chicken leg to stick in there."

Great Aunt Helen Hottie came out for some marshmallows in front of the freezing-dead magnolia tree:

Chiggar the Dingo stayed with us, too. How lucky are we? Blake almost got him airborne through the magic of centrifugal force:

But that was nothing compared to the moment when we realized that the large stick in Chiggar's mouth had flames burning on one end. Alas, no photos of that event, as I was running for my life.

It wouldn't be a holiday gathering in my family if someone didn't run for her life sooner or later. Speaking of which...

The Cuz is the source of many of our family's funniest sagas. My personal favorite happened when we were kids; she probably wasn't more than 5 or 6. Our whole family was doing what we used to do in those days: sleeping outside and providing ample feasts for the mosquitos at Truman Lake. Of course, every night involved weenies and marshmallows cooked over an open fire, and fried potatoes cooked in the electric skillet because no way was my mom camping without electricity, real toilets and showers, and shelter, for which I'm eternally grateful. Anyway, Wendy had achieved what every marshmallow-roaster aims for - the nirvana of having a ball of molten, blackened, sugar fireball on a stick. She stepped away from the fire with her flaming fireball and promptly dropped it into the center of Granny Viv's great big bouffant hairdo.

It's an important moment in every family when torches are passed to the next generation. Even if the torch is a flaming marshmallow on a stick.

Granny Viv remained inside all evening. I don't blame her. Not one bit.