I have something to tell you. And trust me, I'm as bewildered as you are. This statement should probably have a confessional tone to it... Deep breath: I made non-edible, miniature baked goods for absolutely no reason whatsoever. [opens eyes into orbs, awaiting your judgmental eyebrow raise]
And before you go thinking I'm one of those desperate stay-at-home moms who has the time to iron sheets, grow and mix my own organic baby food, and hang pictures on my walls, stop right there. I was really busy. In fact, I was going to be late for a meeting to talk to a guy about turning my l'il Etsy biz into a limited liability corporation, had sssick husby who may or may not have puked out his entire soul, and was lining up someone who wasn't dying to watch Jack, and I was like, "Nah, I have time to give my fake bread a coating of clear nail polish..."
It started out innocent enough. I made Jack some salt dough to play with, which he immediately threw on the floor. And staring at its plump little mass on the floor, my head cocked slightly to the side, and I'm sure I had the crazy eyes as I picked it up and began to mold it into.... miniature bread? And before I knew it, there I was, hunched over my baby baguette, giving it some dimension with a burnt sienna chalk pastel.
And that in itself probably wouldn't be that weird were it not for the fact that I don't think I've been more pleased with a creation since... Jack, maybe? I mean, look at it, will you?? Just look at it! (Side note: I realize now I should have included something for scale in the picture. That adorable baby cinnamon roll is about the size of a quarter, squee!!)
The real problem here is that now I've got a taste for it. [Not a literal taste. There's nail polish on there, remember?] And who's to stop me from making mountains of miniature food until the wee hours of the morning??? No one. I'm a grown-A adult and if I want to spend my time making baby baguettes, I get to. Sucks to be you, kids.