The kind of richness you don’t measure in money. It had been a couple of weeks since I’d seen my stepdaughter Megan—not forever, but long enough that I missed her. We keep in touch in our group chat, and the other day I dropped in a few pictures of the spinach quiches I’d made. Not long after, Megan saw them and FaceTimed me , “You know what? I really wanna make a quiche too—with ham and cheese and peppers.” That kind of moment? That’s the stuff that gets me. The kids tease me because I get emotional over things like this, but to me, it’s not just about food. It’s about connection. Megan seeing something I made and wanting to join in? That’s love in action. That’s presence. That’s the good stuff. So We went over to her house. We started pulling ingredients out, chatting, laughing, figuring it out as we went. But First, I saw the crib. All set up. First grandbaby on the way. And I got choked up. There’s something about seeing a crib in the room where your daughter stands—that tiny remin...

The Buc-ee’s Breakdown How I Barely Survived the Largest Gas Station in America I pulled into Buc-ee’s for gas and snacks. What I got was a Texas-sized fever dream of brisket chants, wall-to-wall fudge, and the cleanest bathroom on Earth. A few years back, somewhere on a long haul north from Florida, I decided to finally see what all the fuss was about. We’d been hearing about Buc-ee’s forever—the kids were obsessed. According to the internet, it was some kind of roadside utopia where you could buy a seven-pound pail of bacon grease, nachos, and parfaits all under one roof. We spotted the brand-new Buc-ee’s off I-95 in South Carolina. It had 120 gas pumps. One. Hundred and twenty, And still, I circled the parking lot no less than 15 times trying to find a spot. RVs, lifted trucks, little Subarus with “adventure” stickers on the back—all of us trapped in a swirling gas station vortex. After ten minutes of aimless circling and increasing blood pressure, I gave up, peeled off...