After the first night at the lake when we had a campfire and roasted marshmallows, Stella became obsessed. We roasted marshmallows every night, with Stella helpfully reminding us from the moment she woke up that we needed to have a campfire right now and roast lots and lots of marshmallows. David thinks marshmallows are disgusting, and although intellectually I know he's right, there's just something inherently delicious about sugar and gelatin puffed up with air. Like her mama, Stella loves the bad carbs. I have not yet introduced her to Nutella, as I'm afraid that it will become 90% of her diet once she knows it exists. (She has, however, been exposed to Vegemite on a trip to New Zealand, with results that were no less hilarious for being predictable.)
Stella is a cautious child. This is helpful when you're trying to cross a parking lot with two children in tow, but it makes roasting marshmallows into something of a farce. She stands a good 20 or 25 feet from the fire, where the marshmallow is exposed to temperatures 0.0001 degree hotter than the surrounding air. Naturally, she meticulously rotates the stick with the marshmallow on it so that it "roasts" evenly on all sides, then declares it "nice and gooey" and ready to consume. Good thing David built that fire.
Stella is very demanding these days, which was on full display at the lake. Commands, many of which are conflicting or impossible, positively spew forth from her. Get me a drink! Read me a book! Find my scissors! Put my drink away! I want to go to Omaha! She is also very particular (though random) about which of us minions is worth of the honor of providing assistance to her. If I'm trying to help her and she demands Daddy instead, my general attitude is that David is busy elsewhere and I will help her. The exception is if she demands that Daddy wipe her bottom, in which case I suddenly develop an immediate and profound respect for her bodily autonomy. DAVID! YOUR DAUGHTER NEEDS YOU!