Passing down a multigenerational love of cooking to my daughter
I asked her to repeat all the names of the ingredients after me, which she happily did. I said, "This is oatmeal. Can you say 'oatmeal?'"
"Yes... oatmeal."
Then I said, "This is flour. Say 'flour.'"
She said, "F-wower."
"Very good, Sweetie. Now say 'Buttermilk.'"
She thought about it for a minute and then said, "Monkey milk!"
I, repressing laughter, continued by saying, "Hmmm, let's try that again. Can you say 'butt-er-milk?'" She tried again and it came out, "Puppy milk."
"O.K.," I said, "Say it again, but this time say, B-B-B-Bu-u-u-t-t-t-errr-milk."
She said, "O.K., Mommy... Bupper-milk... (after a little pause) Mommy?"
"Yes, Honey."
"Go pway leakilawgs, me?"
"What, Honey?"
"Mommy, go pway leakalods, me?"
Kneeling down to get on her level, I said, "Honey, I'm sorry, I don't understand what it is you want. Will you say it again, please?"
"Yeah, go... pwAYYYY... LEAKilogs, ME!"
From the other room, Jim Bob chimes in, "I think she wants to go play with the Lincoln Logs!" About to double over from laughter I said, "Oh!... sure Honey, you can go play with the Lincoln Logs."
(As an aside, leaky logs is NOT what what we'll be using when Jim Bob builds our log home.)
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