I performed a risk assessment. “There are no binding rules for the distribution of a vanilla bundt cake on a non-special occasion,” I reported. “This will lead to anarchy.”
She smiled. For a moment, the “God-shaped hole” in my chest felt less like a void and more like a space where something had simply been moved.
The true crisis, however, began at 7:42 AM in our kitchen.
Log Entry: Post-Denominational Sunday. Location: East Texas. Threat Level: Moderate.
“It’s vanilla,” she announced, placing the ring-shaped delicacy on the counter. “Your mama’s favorite.”
Missy lapped me. Twice. She is built for speed. I am built for theoretical physics. My legs are levers, not pistons.
I helped her up. We walked the remaining 1.6 kilometers together. We did not discuss God, physics, or the FBI. We discussed the optimal angle of the sprinkler head that caused her fall (forty-seven degrees). It was the most pleasant conversation we had all week.
My father, George Sr., saw the race as an opportunity to reassert his dominance over our neighbor, Agent Jefferies of the FBI. It was a classic territorial dispute over a Weber grill that escalated into a footrace. Adult males are fascinatingly primitive.
I performed a risk assessment. “There are no binding rules for the distribution of a vanilla bundt cake on a non-special occasion,” I reported. “This will lead to anarchy.”
She smiled. For a moment, the “God-shaped hole” in my chest felt less like a void and more like a space where something had simply been moved.
The true crisis, however, began at 7:42 AM in our kitchen. young sheldon s01e22 m4a
Log Entry: Post-Denominational Sunday. Location: East Texas. Threat Level: Moderate.
“It’s vanilla,” she announced, placing the ring-shaped delicacy on the counter. “Your mama’s favorite.” I performed a risk assessment
Missy lapped me. Twice. She is built for speed. I am built for theoretical physics. My legs are levers, not pistons.
I helped her up. We walked the remaining 1.6 kilometers together. We did not discuss God, physics, or the FBI. We discussed the optimal angle of the sprinkler head that caused her fall (forty-seven degrees). It was the most pleasant conversation we had all week. For a moment, the “God-shaped hole” in my
My father, George Sr., saw the race as an opportunity to reassert his dominance over our neighbor, Agent Jefferies of the FBI. It was a classic territorial dispute over a Weber grill that escalated into a footrace. Adult males are fascinatingly primitive.