The first law of cake was broken when my father cut a slice before the official post-race cooling period. The second law was broken when my mother declared the remaining cake would be the prize for the race winner. A non-caloric incentive. It was brilliant in its cruelty. A simple carbohydrate became a dopamine trap.
“The math suggested otherwise,” I replied. “Besides, Meemaw has a second cake in her car. A chocolate one. With no ceremonial restrictions.”
“The cake is a vector for saturated fat,” I replied. “But you are a vector for my existence. Statistically, you are more valuable.” young sheldon s01e22 m4a
The stated reason was “charity.” The unstated reason, which I deduced immediately, was that my mother, Mary Cooper, was attempting to fill the “God-shaped hole” in my life following my recent excommunication from the church. Her logic was that endorphins from running would replicate the spiritual euphoria of communion. This is scientifically inaccurate. Endorphins block pain. They do not provide absolution for original sin.
Log Entry: Post-Denominational Sunday. Location: East Texas. Threat Level: Moderate. The first law of cake was broken when
The true crisis, however, began at 7:42 AM in our kitchen.
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. It was brilliant in its cruelty
I still don’t believe in miracles. But I believe my mother believes in me. And for a nine-year-old physicist in Texas, that is a sufficiently stable variable.