Pete's Expert Summary
So, the human has presented me with a bag of colorful plastic bits from this 'Melissa & Doug' operation, a brand I understand specializes in distracting the smaller, more chaotic humans. Apparently, its purpose is to desecrate a perfectly good litter box—or 'sandbox,' as they call it—by molding gritty, inedible 'cupcakes.' The entire concept is an affront to both my culinary sensibilities and my rigorous standards of hygiene. While the primary function is a profound waste of my time, I will concede that the smaller, brightly colored 'toppers'—a fish, a shell, a crab—might possess a certain flick-able, under-the-sofa-skittering potential. The rest of it, especially that ridiculous hinged mold, seems destined to clutter my domain, a monument to misguided human gift-giving.
Key Features
- Sand molding set to make cupcakes at the beach or in the sandbox
- 12-piece set includes hinged cupcake mold, 4 cupcake cups, 4 cupcake toppers, tray, icing tool and mesh storage bag
- It's simple to make delicious-looking seaside confections
- Set stores in rinse-through mesh bag; part of Melissa & Doug's Sunny Patch, a line of products that encourages exploration and outdoor play
- Makes a great gift for girls and boys, ages 3 to 10, for hands-on, screen-free play
A Tale from Pete the Cat
The human called it a "beach day," but since my paws are far too refined for the indignity of sand, she brought the beach to the living room rug. From a strange mesh bag, she produced what looked like the remnants of a failed, brightly colored civilization. She arranged them on a blue tray, an altar for some bizarre ritual I had not yet been privy to. I watched from the arm of the sofa, a silent, gray-furred deity observing the follies of a lesser being. There were cups, strange symbols, and a tool that looked like a crude attempt at a spatula. My judgment was swift and merciless: this was junk. She then produced a small container of sand. Sand. *Inside.* The audacity. With great, plodding ceremony, she began packing the grit into the molds, pressing, and topping them with the little plastic crab and fish icons. She presented one to me, a gritty, pathetic imitation of a cupcake. I gave her a look that could curdle milk, one that clearly communicated my disgust for this sacrilegious offering. I am a cat of taste and distinction; I do not traffic in dirt-pastries. I turned my back on the whole affair and began meticulously grooming my shoulder, a clear dismissal of her and her primitive crafts. Hours later, long after the human had cleaned up her mess and retired for the evening, my patrol of the territory brought me back to the blue tray she had left behind. The plastic pieces were gone, stored away in their net prison. But the tray itself remained. It was shallow, with a comforting lip around the edge. Hesitantly, I stepped onto it. The plastic was cool against my paws. I circled three times, a necessary incantation before any serious settling can occur, and then I curled into a perfect, tight circle. It was, I had to admit, a rather exquisite napping platform. It cradled my form perfectly, containing my regal essence in a neat, rectangular frame. The fools had created a throne and hadn't even realized it. The toy itself is worthless, but this one component, this simple blue tray, has proven its utility. It is worthy. For now.
