Playdough has been part of the summer fun around here. My granddaughter has rolled and patted and pressed her way into a pastel playdough patisserie filled to the brim with pink (of course) and blue pies and cakes, ice-cream cones and cookies.
My grandson, following other inspiration, has rolled his playdough into cocoons and chrysalis that have hatched into butterflies and beetles. He has formed fossils too. Lots and lots of fossils.
It has reminded me of a long ago summer day.
When my oldest daughter was two, I began to make playdough for her entertainment. Just like my granddaughter, she was transformed into a miniature baker. Cookies were her specialty.
My in-laws had come for a visit.
Grandpa was reading and my little daughter proudly carried a fresh batch of playdough cookies into the living room for his approval.
He promptly took a bite.
Moments later, he appeared in the kitchen doorway with my little daughter at his side. Neither of them looked happy.
"This sure is salty cookie dough," he lamented hastening to the sink.
"Oh, you didn't EAT it did you,?" I gasped.
My little daughter solemnly nodded.
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