My son, future fire bug

For Fathers Day I decided to go all out an make Mr. Dog a special meal. See, I'm wallowing in the guilt of much business travel, and having just returned from an amazing trip to Beijing I'm trying to make it up to him a bit. Lamb roast, baby potatoes and salad followed by s'more cupcakes seem to be in order.
As I baked the cupcakes, the boys played upstairs with their newest toys and occasionally came to the kitchen to deliver "secret agent" messages in their fancy new Spy Gear watches. It was on one of these occasions Little Dog saw me adding the signature "toasting" to the marshmallowy topping. I do this with a kitchen torch. I enjoy it, it appeals to both the artist and the pyromaniac in me. Little Dog burst into the kitchen singing his secret agent song (a song he's made up for himself and uses like a theme as he does spy things) then halted, completely frozen in his tracks watching the tiny torch turn the white meringue icing golden brown.
"Is that a fire gun?" he asked, his voice filled with a level of awe I've only heard on one previous occasion when I explained that I could bake brownies whenever I want because I know the recipe.
"Kind of, it's a kitchen torch. But yes, that is fire and it is only for grown ups," I explained to my still spellbound child.
"Oh," he said in a slightly distant voice, "I want to do that."
"Well, you can. When you're a grown up."
"Yeah, that's what I mean."
"Ok, sure." But that doesn't mean I won't take extra care hiding it when I put it away tonight.