Too Many Cooks

I was making granola the other day - yes, I know, very domestic and "granola" of me. Don't think too highly of me, though: last time I made it I pulled one of those "I think I turned the oven off" moments - only to realize 45 minutes later, after I picked G up, that indeed, I had *not* turned the oven off. Mmmmm, burnt granola. But that was last time.
True to his Betty Crocker tendencies, G was fascinated with what I was doing: I let him sit on the counter as I measured the ingredients. I picked him up so he could watch the oil/honey mixture cook. I turned on the light in the oven so he could watch it bake - fascinating, I know: second only to watching paint dry. He was directly under foot as I took it out to stir the slowly baking cereal.
As thrilling as watching the granola bake was, he kept coming back to see how the baking was coming. Nose pressed against the glass. Arms up in a salute of sorts to the Oven of Magic.
After a while, he was becoming rather a handful, so I put him in his room for some "quiet time." That is code for "I need a break from him."
After what seemed a very short amount of time, I smelled the smell of cooking-too-fast/burning/becoming-very-done granola. "Odd," I thought: It didn't seem even close to done the last time I checked. But, remembering my lesson from last time, I dutifully looked in on it. Done. And then some.
How so quickly? Our ever-helpful culinary genius had turned the oven from 325 degrees to 600.