Recipe for Disaster

When Graham got a hold of my short grocery list yesterday, I figured he'd pretend he was shopping with his bucket of faux produce and plastic cans of tomatoes, but instead he grabbed another piece of paper and made his own list.

"Bubba, what are you doing?"

"Making a list for the store."

"Oh, I see.  Why are you making a list?"

"I have a respisee."

"You're following a recipe?  Cool!  What are you going to cook?"

"Cookies!"

"Yummy!  So what's on your list?" 

"Bananas, toilet paper, milk, bubble stuff, band-aids, cheese, chicken nuggets, ice cream, toys and Oscar."

"That's pretty weird, but let's give it a shot."

So we mixed what felt like 20 pounds of air "ingredients" into the bowl, rolled it, patted it and marked it with a G, and threw it in the "oven" for Graham and me.

Except it wasn't quite as cute as patty cake.  

He pretended to eat the imaginary cookie, spat it out, hurled himself onto the floor in a fit of pretend-induced food poisoning, and then he threw me under the imaginary and proverbial bus.

"Dat cookie is YUCKY!"

"Yeah, it's pretty weird.  But maybe that's because you put those crazy ingredients in it."

"No, YOU did, Mommy.  You not make any more cookies with dogs."

And then Graham walked over and licked the dog.  

If I quit baking, do you think I'll save up enough money to pay for his therapy?