Mommy doesn't always check the temperature of meals like a proper michelin chef should. Food should be served warm at most, but tepid is perfectly acceptable. When I show her a spoonful that is on the verge of sublimating before my eyes, she gives it a little blow. (Daddy says the air flow helps speed the heat transfer.) Well, her lungs are no match for such extreme temperatures, and she stops after a paltry breath. I finally gave up holding out my spoon for intervention and learned to blow on my own food. And I can keep it up until the morsel reaches its ideal room temperature. But I still alert the chef, "hot hot hot!" so she can think about what she's done.
This evening the bath plunged to an arctic freeze a mere minutes into my hour-long nightly ritual. Mommy turned on the tap to warm it up, but the stream was scalding hot! Playing under the cascade meant risk of fourth degree burns. Well, I knew how to fix this! I blew on the running water under it cooled down.
