roasting marshmallows

My poor boys.

We've been cooped up inside this week because John put fertilizer on both lawns. And the boys are not supposed to run around on all those nitrogenous pellets. And those pellets wound not dissolve into the ground, like they were supposed to. I was getting so desperate, I was about to vacuum the grass. 

In the meanwhile, the boys requested some cotton balls. 

How could I refuse them? There was not much else to do inside. I was curious to see what would happen next. Keep in mind, we were going stir-crazy.(We did go on a few walks, which always ended with Ollie weaseling his way out of the stroller and charging toward the street. NOT relaxing.)

First, they assemble some logs.

Then comes the dance of the fire-lighting ceremony.

Roasting the *marshmallows* to golden perfection.

"Yummy, yummy. Mommy, want some?" they ask.

"No thanks, boys, though they do look lovely", I say. I have an extreme aversion to cotton balls, in which they make my fingers want to wretch."

"Ok, here's you goes kitty".