Ian loves to cook. If you’re familiar with our household, this is what’s known as irony.

One of his favorite toys in his sunday school classroom has always been the Little Tike kitchen, complete with microwave, sink, and cooking range. The first time he set foot in the room, he walked directly to the kitchen, grabbed a pan, and made scrambled eggs for a doll. He’s going to be very popular.

Sometimes he’ll go shopping before he cooks, grabbing faded plastic carrots from a shelf; or a chewed…something…from the toybox, that may have, at one time, been broccoli.

Over Thanksgiving, as the family was talking in the kitchen, Ian took Kelly’s cupcake pan from the island. He grabbed some magnetic letters from the fridge, and placed them, one by one, into each cup. He set the pan on top of the stove (which he really shouldn’t, but I was curious) and stepped away, waiting.

A few seconds later, he took the pan from the stove and served us ‘ABC cupcakes’.

That weekend we bought what was left of a dusty, old kitchen playset at an antique mall for $5. It was supposed to have been a distraction from the older, frigiler, and expensiver things placed at toddler-eye-level, but Ian fell in love with it. We brought it home, Kelly cleaned it, and Ian started baking. He’s not old enough to care that you can’t bake with a dishwasher.

My mother and I came home from the movies, and Ian handed me a baking pan. ‘Here’s the food, Daddy!’ I took a handful and ate, but Ian frowned and said, ‘Too hot, Daddy. Too hot!’ He held his cupped hand in front of my mouth. ‘Hot! Not like that!’

He wasn’t satisfied until I spit the bite into his hand.