Of pumpkin pie and cranberry muffins

Today, while getting shoes on and balls gathered for our daily trip to the park, Finn suddenly yelled out "punkin!" He ran to get his hat--and by "hat" I mean the instrument of torture foisted upon him on a certain holiday known for cruel rituals associated with clothing. (This would also be the hat that I spent weeks knitting ... not that a toddler-size hat should take weeks, mind you. The first time was too small so I ripped it out and started over, and I'm still such a beginner so I'm slow ... it's too big now, but not too too big.)
But oh! He wore it! Happily, and of his own volition. Nevermind that it wasn't actually cold enough to need a hat. I'll take what I can get. I suspect that his newfound love of pumpkin pie has something to do with this, and that's just fine with this baker mama.

And then tonight at dinner, he cried earnest tears over the disappearance of the butter from his fresh-from-the-oven (read: hot) cranberry muffins. We kept trying to explain that the butter had just melted, but oh, he kept calling for "butt-er" though his tears, until a demonstration was necessary. (Twist my arm, son. We can double-butter everybody's muffin, if that helps.) (How does he not know this? We eat so much butter ... )
If what they say is true--that the difference between a good chef and a great one is a pound of butter--then we're going places, folks.