Pete's Expert Summary
It appears my staff has procured a "Slice and Bake Cookie Set" from the Melissa & Doug brand, a name I associate with the clatter of wood and a distinct lack of edible components. This is, ostensibly, a training tool for small, clumsy humans to mimic the act of providing me with treats. It consists of inedible wooden discs masquerading as cookies, a variety of colorful "toppings," and several superfluous tools. While the concept of baking is one I wholeheartedly endorse, the execution here is a tragic, scentless farce. The only redeeming feature I can perceive is the collection of small, circular toppings, which seem perfectly engineered for batting under the heaviest and least accessible piece of furniture in the room. A potential diversion, but a poor substitute for the real thing.
Key Features
- COLORFUL WOODEN PLAY FOOD SET: The Melissa & Doug Slice-and-Bake Wooden Cookie Play Foot Set includes 12 sliceable cookies, 12 toppings, knife, spatula, cookie sheet, and kitchen mitt. Cookies store in a durable dough tube.
- SWEET INTRODUCTION TO PRETEND PLAY: Our slice-and-bake pretend play food inspires children ages 3 and up pretend to bake, decorate, and serve cookies, all while practicing fine motor skills, learning number concepts, and more.
- DURABLE CONSTRUCTION: This baking set for kids is made from superior-quality materials that have been designed for frequent use.
- GREAT GIFT FOR 3 TO 5 YEARS: The Melissa & Doug Slice-and-Bake Cookie Set makes an ideal gift for kids ages 3 to 5 years. Add the Melissa & Doug Wooden Make-a-Cake set to round out the pretend play, screen-free experience.
- “THE GOLD STANDARD IN CHILDHOOD PLAY”: For more than 30 years, Melissa & Doug has created beautifully designed imagination- and creativity-sparking products that NBC News calls “the gold standard in early childhood play.”
- 100% HAPPINESS GUARANTEE: We design every toy to the highest-quality standards, and to nurture minds and hearts. If your child is not inspired, give us a call and we'll make it right. Our phone number is on every product!
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The Provider placed the offering on the rug with a reverence I usually reserve for a freshly opened can of tuna. A wooden tube disgorged its contents with a series of dull *thuds*. A dozen wooden discs, a dozen smaller, brightly painted circles, a blunt-looking knife, and other assorted paraphernalia. The air filled not with the warm, buttery scent of promise, but with the sterile aroma of wood and paint. An insult. I gave my pristine white bib a pointed lick and turned my back on the entire affair, feigning a sudden and intense interest in a dust bunny near the baseboard. This was beneath me. Hours passed. The sunbeam I was occupying shifted, forcing me to relocate. My new path, regrettably, took me past the bizarre tableau. The Provider had arranged the items on the little metal sheet, creating a mockery of a true baker's art. My curiosity, that most base and feline of instincts, began to prickle. I approached with silent paws, a gray shadow investigating a crime against gastronomy. A sniff confirmed the lack of any culinary value. Yet, as I nudged one of the "cookies" with my nose, I noticed it was attached to its neighbor. A gentle pat with a soft paw did nothing. Annoyed, I gave it a firm *thwack*. The resulting *KRRRRRCH* was shocking. A loud, tearing sound, like a giant insect's wing being ripped in two. It was vulgar, yet… compelling. I experimented again, separating another cookie with a calculated strike. *KRRRRRCH*. The sound echoed in the quiet room, a satisfying little rip of noise. This had potential. But the main course was a distraction; the true delicacy was the pile of toppings. They were lightweight, perfectly shaped, and painted in cheerful, unappetizing colors. I selected a vibrant yellow one with my paw, pulling it from the pile. It felt good. I flicked it. The wooden disc skittered across the hardwood floor with a delightful *click-clack-click* before vanishing into the dark abyss beneath the entertainment center, a place from which no small object has ever returned. A thrill shot through me. This wasn't a baking set. This was an armory. I spent the next ten minutes liberating every single topping, sending them on glorious, high-speed journeys into the shadows. The Provider will be mystified. Let the small human for whom this was likely intended weep over their plain, undecorated wooden cookies. My work was done. I surveyed the scene – the lonely cookies, the empty metal tray – and hopped onto the sofa. The toy itself is a preposterous collection of wooden lies, a failure in its primary mission to be a cookie. But as a high-quality, durable projectile launcher for demonstrating the laws of physics and the inevitability of loss? For that, it is a masterpiece. An absolute masterpiece.
