A roadside creamery in Savannah, Georgia. Thirty-two metal tubs of ice cream glowed beneath curved glass like jewels in an emperor’s vault. Behind me, an impatient line of fourteen southern families stretched into the parking lot. Children in swimsuits waved plastic shovels. The strategic pressure exceeded the vanguard at Sekigahara. Butter pecan? Georgia peach? Praline crunch? Mint chip? One wrong decision and the entire afternoon would end in dishonor. Sweat poured into my eyebrows. My knees trembled. When the girl behind the counter asked for my order, cowardly terror seized my vocal cords. Plain vanilla. One small scoop. Chloe, sixteen years old with a glitter star glued to her cheek and a neon visor, looked at my agonized face and flatly refused my surrender. She scooped vanilla. Then she slammed a gigantic second scoop of Georgia peach on top. Then she ladled warm brown-sugar caramel until it cascaded down the waffle cone, and buried the entire summit beneath an avalanche of rainbow sprinkles. I gasped in horror: Stop! I have not earned this grandeur! I do not have the rank for sprinkles! Chloe shoved the pastel mountain into my hands with a neon pink shovel spoon. Honey, life is way too short to stand in a Georgia line for fifteen minutes and walk out with plain vanilla! No extra charge, just smile! I stumbled out to the white wooden porch bench. The rainbow sprinkles crunched like tiny sweet pebbles. The peach tasted like pure southern sunshine. My iron discipline lay shattered on the floor, and it was the sweetest defeat of my entire life.