This form of misdirection is necessary to prevent Dad from doing things like scooping a bunch of the pie filling out with his bare hands.
He did an exaggerated Elmer Fudd "I'm hunting wabbit" tippy-toes walk over to the cinnamon roll and then dashed away with it, smirking as though getting away with something. Had a freshly-baked pie been visible to him in this state of mind, I feel confident that he would have burned himself.
















