I ask myself, “Am I really living in Oklahoma?” more often than you’d think. Usually, it’s somewhere between church, junior hockey logistics, and negotiating a meal that works for seven people—one of whom has apparently decided bacon is the enemy. That’s Oklahoma life. The clock runs it, the weather comments on it, and the menu is always up for debate.

The Granddaughter Tax

Sunday mornings start at Bible study and church, where our daughter and son-in-law reliably end up beside us. The real perk, though, comes at the end of the service: a brief, glorious window with our granddaughter. I made some nonsense noises until she reached for me, and I want to be clear—that is a win.

I make no claims to being her favorite person, but I am absolutely certain I am her favorite grandpa. (I’m also her only one, but I’ve learned not to audit the wins. You take them.)

Diplomatic Dining

One phone call with my daughter confirmed the headcount. The plan: bacon pasta. The complication: one vegetarian at the table. Her solution was delivered with the energy of someone explaining gravity to a confused golden retriever: “Pull out some of the pasta before adding the bacon, Dad.” I said, “Of course,” like I’d always known that. I had not always known that. The vortex does things to your brain.

The Wind’s Opinion

I managed to squeeze in my walk before the cooking started—a small miracle. After a mid-90s Saturday, Sunday was manageable, though the Oklahoma wind let me know about it for thirty minutes.

To drown out the gale, I’m working through a women’s mystery on Kindle Unlimited. It’s not my usual lane, but it’s included in the subscription, and it’s kept me out of the WWII concentration-camp romance spiral my wife has apparently completed in its entirety. We all make different choices.

A Word About the Hockey Boys

If you’re not familiar with junior hockey, here’s the short version: we host young athletes—gap-year guys sharpening their skills before college hockey—from late summer through May. They are large, they eat aggressively, and they usually solve our bacon problems by limiting themselves to a pound (It is a lot!), so we just make a little more than that.

This weekend, the “supply chain” was offline. The boys played in Amarillo on Friday and Saturday before trekking down to Odessa. They were mid-trip on the long haul back to OKC today, and while I rooted for them from my living room TV, the scoreboard wasn’t kind. With the boys on the road, I was forced into a rare position: I had to cook bacon that didn’t first have an appointment with breakfast.

The Bacon Manifesto

I cook bacon in the oven now. Parchment paper on the bottom, grease pooling in a shallow golden layer, the result being what I can only describe as perfect floppy bacon—cooked through, never burnt, yielding. Yes, the house doesn’t smell like a diner fire right away, but the taste is entirely there. This is what growth looks like.

Between the bacon, the banana cake my wife had staged for the oven, and the focaccia already doing its thing on the counter, the kitchen was finally catching up to what a Sunday is supposed to feel like.

Why It’s Worth the Chaos

Broccoli roasted, focaccia out, and the bacon supply retired with dignity. We sat around a table that had needed some diplomatic negotiating to populate and celebrated our granddaughter’s latest month-iversary (two days early, but who’s counting?).

We do a lot for the hockey boys, and we’re glad to. But for the family meal, there is something that feels less like an obligation and more like an anchor. The week is loud. The vortex is always spinning. We’re pretty lucky to have this one on our weekly calendar.