"Look, Frida. Aren't the flames lovely? They look like toungues, licking that marshmellow of yours!" the tall man said. He looked down to the young girl, Frida, whom of which he was addressing.
Frida smiled and nodded, though it was obvious she was trying to concentrate. She focused intently on the marshmellow she was roasting. It couldn't be too burnt, nor undercooked. It had to be perfection.