Magna cum whipped cream

I missed my grandson's graduation from Kitchen Academy, and I am going to unfairly blame it on science. Before I begin my complaint, however, I must tell you how proud I am to have a certified chef in my family. Even better, he says he's now going to specialize in pastry. Pastry is my life.

Anyway, on graduation day, I trimmed my beard and got ready for the trip. While waiting for departure time, I flipped on the Bravia, only to hear an advisory from the National Weather Service about what sounded like the storm of the century, and how it was bearing down on our pleasant little town. In the beginning, it was moving 20 MPH, carrying nickel-sized hail and a possible tornado, due to wreak devastation by 3:30 pm. As time progressed, it started to slow down, but hadn't lost any of its intensity, and the time frame was extended to 4:00, then 4:30, and eventually 6:00. At 5:00 pm, when the news came on, and it was too late to leave for the culinary festivities, they announced that the storm was stalled five miles south of town near the hamlet of Artois. (Parenthetically, Artois was originally named Germantown, but during one of the Great Wars, the local denizens decided to give it a French-looking name. I say looking, rather than sounding, because it has come to be called AR-toys.)

Needless to say, the storm turned out to be a dud. At 8:30 pm, it rained somewhat heavily for a short while, but in the morning, it was all sunny and stuff. Science had fooled me again, sounding like it knew something I didn't. I suppose I should have been suspicious when I heard no Artesians speak on TV. I guess I should be grateful that neither the house nor the horses were besieged, but the National Weather Service is no longer on my Christmas card list.