My father retired today after working in the New York City school system for thirty-four years. That seems like a pretty big thing, so I decided that I’d bake him a cake. But not just your regular, average, stir-and-bake, pop-open-the-cannister-of-frosting cake. I made a cake from scratch.

I suppose I should start by saying that baking is not one of my fortes. I don’t know what my fortes even ARE, but I do know that baking does not even closely resemble any of them. There are two things I’m good at baking, butter cookies and caramel-filled chocolate cookies, and they’re both essentially foolproof. Still, I feel that maybe one of these days I’ll unearth some sort of cooking talent, and so I keep trying.

I started out last night by dusting off the good ol’ “Joy of Cooking”, the chef’s bible. Opened it up to cakes, and selected a chocolate génoise because I had once seen this French guy on Martha Stewart Living make it and it had looked pretty easy. (Lesson #1: If you see a French chef on Martha Stewart Living doing anything, even washing his hands, it probably is so difficult that you’ll never, ever be able to do it.) The little “about génoise” blurb in the book said that it was best brushed with simple syrup and layered with buttercream icing. Alright. I could deal with that, it was for my father after all.
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8 screenshots from movies, minus bodies. It’s your job to identify the movies. Harder than it sounds.

I wrote the following sonnet as my “final project” for AP Physics.

Ode: Intimations of Physicality from Recollections of Early Seniordom

(After “Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood” by William Wordsworth)

There was a day when matter, space, and time–
The earth, and every common sight–to me
Seemed vacant of all factuality;
Possessed no reason, human or sublime.

It is not now as it hath been of yore;
No matter whereupon I lay my eyes
(Though this should come as little/no surprise)
It seems that Physics has unlocked a door.

The rainbow is refractory delight,
The moon is falling always through the night
And pulling, pulling, pulling on the earth
Through gravitation (weak, for what it’s worth).

So while the textbooks tell their joyous tales,
And vectors point, and soundwaves sing their song,
And tension pulls in both directions long,
And airtracks glide along their polished rails–

Of all things–matter, space, time–this I know:
They’re all connected; Physics told me so.