Pete's Expert Summary
My human, in a display of what I can only assume is a temporary lapse in judgment, has presented me with this... collection of plastic refuse. They call it a "Farmer's Market Color Sorting Set," which is clearly intended for the small, loud humans who lack my innate understanding of the world's complexities. The idea of "learning colors" is offensively simplistic; I have long categorized my environment into far more important shades, such as "Warm Sunbeam Gold," "Tuna Pink," and "Shadow-Under-the-Sofa Gray." While the miniature bushel baskets are an insult to any creature of my size hoping for a nap, the 25 small plastic food items hold a sliver of potential. They appear lightweight and smooth, perfectly shaped for being batted at high speed across the hardwood floor and into the dark, dusty realm beneath the credenza, a place I consider my private art gallery of lost treasures.
Key Features
- Bushels of Learning: Develop toddler color recognition and sorting skills with this fun collection of realistic-looking play food for toddlers!
- Explore New Foods: As they play fun games of pretend with these toddler sorting toys, kids can also expand their vocabularies by naming familiar favorites and learning new foods!
- Preschool-Ready Skills: With the help of color-coordinated play food and easy-to-visualize bushel baskets, kids build school-ready sorting and toddler color learning skills!
- Lots of Foods, Lots of Colors: The Farmer’s Market Color Sorting Set includes 25 pieces of play food in 5 different colors, as well as 5 baskets, an activity guide, and stickers for labeling!
- Give the Gift of Learning: Whether you’re shopping for holidays, birthdays, or just because, toys from Learning Resources help you discover new learning fun every time you give a gift!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human laid out the five baskets on the rug, a garish rainbow of primary-colored shrines. Into them, they sorted the plastic fruits and vegetables with a tedious, plodding logic that offended my sensibilities. "See, Pete?" they cooed, holding up a purple eggplant. "Purple goes in the purple basket." I responded with a slow blink, the highest form of pity I can bestow upon a lower life form. Once they were satisfied with their meaningless organizational project and had left the room, I descended from my perch on the armchair to investigate the desecration of my living space. It was not a toy. I saw that immediately. It was a test of faith. These were not mere plastic facsimiles of food; they were icons, crude but powerful totems left by the Clumsy Gods for me to interpret. I approached the red basket, where a plastic apple, tomato, and strawberry sat in unholy alignment. With a deliberate flick of my paw, I knocked the tomato out. It skittered across the floor, a scarlet apostate cast out from the temple. The apple and strawberry remained. Red, the color of the laser dot, the color of the forbidden cranberry sauce at Thanksgiving. This shrine was clearly for the God of Frantic, Unattainable Prey. It was acceptable, for now. My true work began with the other baskets. The yellow one, containing a banana and a lemon, was an obvious tribute to the Sun Puddle, that most sacred patch of warmth that travels across the floor each afternoon. I nudged the basket an inch to the left, aligning it with the current celestial rays. The green basket, filled with a cucumber and broccoli, was more complex. It spoke of the forbidden jungles of the outdoor world, a prayer for the verdant wilderness I see only through the windowpane. I added a stray green bottle cap from under the sofa as my own personal offering. This was not play. This was theology. This was the work of a high priest, and the plastic pieces were my sacred implements. By the time I was finished, the baskets were no longer sorted by color but by cosmic significance. The eggplant was isolated, a solitary monument to my singular, majestic darkness. The corn was positioned to oversee the path to the kitchen, a sentry for the Gravy Train. I sat in the center of my revised arrangement, a soft-furred pontiff amidst his reliquary. The plastic was cheap, the concept pedestrian, but in my paws, it had become a tool of immense spiritual power. The human would never understand the profound liturgical restructuring I had accomplished. Let them think it's a toy. My new church was now in session.