Iris picked out a bag of raspberry Milanos at Fred Meyer.

> **Grandma:** Iris, what kind of cookies are those?

> **Iris:** Raspberry.

> **Grandma:** But what are those raspberry cookies called?

> **Iris:** Oh. Poblanos.

Iris has taken a sudden interest in the natural world.

During dinner, which was chicken enchiladas, she asked, “How does the chicken make chicken?” That is one way of putting it.

Later, we were outside talking about mammals. Iris was asking for an exhaustive list of every type of mammal. Luckily, we were distracted by a young couple coming out of a nearby apartment building. Iris pointed and shouted, “Those guys! Those guys are mammals!”

Finally, during bath, Iris asked where the water goes after it goes down the drain. I said it probably went to a sewage treatment plant and then into Puget Sound. Then I couldn’t help myself from mentioning that they used to dump raw sewage into Lake Washington, and this made the lake sick. “Where did they take it when it got sick?” Iris asked.

Lately, Iris has been requesting Trogdor stories.

Trogdor is a dragon. According to Iris, Trogdor likes to show up announced and eat things in our house. No other form of the Trogdor story is acceptable. Sometimes Iris chooses what Trogdor will eat, and sometimes Laurie and I have to. Last night Laurie said, “I’m going to tell a story about Trogdor eating s’mores.”

“No, *I* have to say what Trogdor is eating,” said Iris.

“Okay, what should Trogdor eat?”

“Um…s’mores?”

Today, Iris informed me: “I’ve got a good idea…Trogdor should have a bagel!”

Trying to distract her from Trogdor, I showed her this article in today’s Seattle Times, about the lifecycle of the geoduck. She pointed at the geoduck’s siphon.

> **Iris:** Is that the neck?

> **Me:** Yes. It’s also called the siphon.

> **Iris:** And also called the drumstick.

Yesterday at the farmers market, we stopped at the Olsen Farms potato stand. Iris selected some red Desirees, which I’m going to mash and serve with sausages this week.

The potato guy gave Iris a tattoo.

This morning at breakfast, Iris said, “When we go to the market next week, will there be more tattoos?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I think I want one next week. Can I ask the potato guy for one?”

“No, you’re too furry.”

Down at the Broadway QFC, there’s an annual (two years running, at least) Halloween candy display with a giant inflatable Grim Reaper. The candy is kept in a tunnel underneath the Reaper, and when you enter the tunnel, the Reaper cackles maniacally and says something unintelligible. Iris absolutely loves the Reaper. She asks to visit it every day. She’s not after the candy; it’s just the chance to hang with the Reaper in person.

Oh, last year, when Iris was one-and-a-half, I told her that the Grim Reaper is also known as Death. Iris said something my mom about the Grim Reaper, which came out sounding like “Green Reaper.”

“Who is the Green Reaper?” asked Grandma.

“Beth!” said Iris.

Today after visiting the Grim, we were on the way to the playground, when Iris began singing the following song:

**Iris:** Old McGrim Reaper had a farm. E-I-E-I-Grim.