Play doh slid through the small holes of the spice jar’s top.
Maybe later we’d get bundled up and brave the wind but for now we’re content to lay on our bellies and roll play doh between our palms.
“Small. Medium. Large.” I make clay balls of different sizes and point out each one.
“Medium.” Casey parrots our every word.
“Dada. Pasta,” he says and lays his head down on his arms, just waiting to show his father this incredible treasure.