P is for Potatoes
When my brother was little, he thought that the potatoes in our house belonged to him. Or, at least, that they were his to do with as he pleased. (We kept them in a low kitchen drawer and they were easy for him to get at, which may have been the source of his Yertle the Turtle-esqe sense of ownership.)
The potatoes were fairly large (probably Idaho russets) and he was quite small (only a toddler), but he could just carry one if he used both arms. He used to deposit them in various places around the house – under the table, behind a door, in his toybox. (Cleaning up his room involved putting his toys back in the toybox and simultaneously taking the potatoes out of it.)
Usually we came across them not long after he had “hidden” them. Occasionally . . . we didn’t. (Rotten potatoes are not pleasant.) We never found out why he liked carrying them around so much, because by the time he started talking, he had grown out of it.