Review by Publisher's Weekly Review
Kat and Ari cherish every moment spent making cookies with their grandfather, but once Grandpa sets the baking timer, the "difficult" part--waiting--begins. So the kids fashion a cardboard box into a time machine and set its dial. It's meant "to take them into the future, to just after the cookies were finished baking. That way, they would never have to wait," writes Sima (Perfectly Pegasus). But time travel proves to be far from an exact science. In their quest to savor freshly baked cookies at the perfect moment, depicted in digital renderings as a journey through a series of graduated pentagons, Kat and Ari are transported back to their very first cookie-baking session with Grandpa as well as into a future where cookies materialize instantly, devoid of any human touch. The experiences remind them how fortunate they are to have the present moment, even one that requires waiting. Time may indeed be a social construct, this moving work hints, but it links us most assuredly to those we hold dear. Characters are portrayed with various abilities and skin tones. Ages 4--8. Agent: Thao Le, Sandra Dijkstra Literary. (Sept.)
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Review by Horn Book Review
Kat and Ari love baking cookies with Grandpa but struggle with the wait while the treats are in the oven. So they build a time machine to skip ahead to when the cookies are done -- but they miscalculate and arrive to find them already eaten. Determined to enjoy the cookies, they hop back into the time machine to try again. By mistake, they visit a time when they were much younger; in fact, their "very first cookie time with Grandpa!" They watch their younger selves with joy, realizing it had been "a perfect day." Next they end up in the future and even find a self-serve "Cookie Time" kiosk, sans humans: "NO WAITING," the sign says. That's when they realize that the key ingredient of cookie time is what's missing: Grandpa. They head back to the present for a big hug -- and cookies, of course. Sima has fun with the story's imaginative details: the children build the time machine out of a cardboard box, a spring, and their dog's ball. The future (where "everything seemed different") is filled with pastel-colored windmills, houses on legs, and robotic pets; the twist ending will please dog lovers. A warm intergenerational story about cherishing the present moment and realizing what's important. Julie DanielsonSeptember/October 2024 p.62 (c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review
Two children find themselves on a time-traveling adventure while they wait for Grandpa's cookies to come out of the oven. When Kat and Ari build a time machine, they set it for "the future, to just after the cookies [are] finished baking." But they end up bouncing through time--to that evening, when the cookies have already been eaten, then back to their very first time baking with Grandpa as young tots. Then they find themselves in the very distant future. Through this journey, Kat and Ari realize that waiting's much easier when you lean into enjoying the passage of time together. Soft pastel colors convey this message deftly. Speeding through time, the children fly past an ombre rainbow. A wash of blue instantly indicates a nighttime scene lit by the light of Grandpa's front porch. The far-off future includes plenty for readers to take in: a house with legs, a dragon-inspired airplane, and special tubes through which townspeople float through in place of streets. Effective use of panels moves the narrative along and gives it a graphic novel--esque feel. This playful story examines a child's natural impatience while showcasing how very rewarding and special waiting can be. Grandpa has light brown skin, while Kat has tan skin; Ari presents Black. A read worth waiting for. (Picture book. 4-6) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
